Chapter 9

Volume 6 Liaozhai Zhiyi, Volume 7, author: Pu Songling Volume 8 → Luo Zu Luo Zu was a man of Jimo. In his youth he was poor. Among the clan one able-bodied man was required for garrison duty on the northern frontier, so Luo was sent. Luo lived at the frontier for several years and had a son. The garrison commander treated him with great kindness. When the commander was transferred to the post of assistant military commissioner in Shaanxi, he wished to take Luo along. Luo therefore entrusted his wife and child to his friend Li, and went west. For three years he could not return home. It happened that the commissioner wanted to send a letter to the northern garrison, and Luo then volunteered, asking to take the opportunity to visit his wife and child. The commissioner granted his request. Luo arrived home; his wife and son were safe and well, which greatly comforted him. But beneath the bed he saw a man’s shoes, and his heart grew suspicious. Soon after, he went to Li’s house to offer thanks. Li plied him with wine and was most attentive; his wife also spoke of Li’s kindness and righteousness, and Luo was overcome with gratitude. The next day he said to his wife, “I am going to deliver my master’s orders; I cannot return by nightfall, so do not wait for me.” He went out, mounted his horse, and left. But he concealed himself nearby, and after the night watch had been set, he returned. He heard his wife and Li lying in bed talking, and in a great rage he broke open the door. The two were terrified and knelt, crawling forward, begging for death. Luo drew his knife, but then sheathed it again, saying, “I had taken you for a man; now that you are like this, killing you would only stain my knife! I make this pact with you: take my wife and child, take my name and my service quota, take my horse, weapons, and gear—all are here. I am gone!” So he left. The villagers reported the matter to the authorities. The magistrate flogged Li, and Li told the truth. But there was no evidence to verify it, and no one could prove anything. A wide search was made for Luo, but his traces were utterly lost. The magistrate, suspecting that the wife and Li had murdered Luo, put Li and the wife in heavier fetters; after a year, both died in chains. Then their son was sent by post back to Jimo. Later, a woodcutter in the Stone Box Barracks went into the mountains and saw a Daoist sitting in a cave, who never asked for food. The people thought this strange and brought him provisions. Some who recognized him said it was Luo. Gifts filled the cave, but Luo never ate, seeming to dislike the noise, so visitors gradually became fewer. After several years, the brushwood and weeds outside the cave grew into a thicket. Some peeped in secretly and saw that he had not moved from his sitting place. After a long while, they saw him walking on the mountain; when they went to him, he had vanished; when they looked into the cave, his robe was covered with dust as before. They found it even stranger. After several more days they went, and saw a jade stalactite hanging down—he had long since passed away in meditation. The local people built a temple for him; every third month, pilgrims with incense and paper money lined the road. His son went there, and everyone called him Little Luo Zu; all the incense offerings and taxes went to him. Even today, his descendants go once a year to collect the tax money. Liu Zongyu of Yishui told me this in great detail. I laughed and said, “In this age, all you benefactors do not seek to become sages or worthies, but only hope to become Buddhas and patriarchs. Let me tell you all: if you want to attain Buddhahood on the spot, you must first put down your knife.” The Liu Surname There was a man of our district surnamed Liu, a tiger in human clothing. Later he moved from Zi to Yi, but his old habits remained, and the villagers all feared and detested him. He had a few acres of farmland adjacent to Miao’s. Miao was diligent and planted many peach trees along the boundary. When the peaches first ripened, Liu’s son climbed over and picked some; Liu angrily drove him off, claiming the trees as his own. The son went home weeping and told his father. While the father was still astonished, Liu was already at his gate cursing, saying he would bring a lawsuit. Miao smiled and tried to soothe him. Liu’s anger did not abate, and he left in a huff. At that time, a fellow villager, Li Cuishi, was a pawnbroker in Yi. Liu went into town with his plaint, and happened to meet him. Since they were from the same place, they knew each other, and Li asked, “What are you doing?” Liu told him. Li laughed and said, “Your reputation is known to all; I have long known Miao, who is very even-tempered and kind. How would he dare to cheat you? Could it be that you are saying the opposite?” He tore up the plaint, pulled Liu into his shop, and offered to mediate. Liu, still resentful, secretly took a pen from the shop, wrote another plaint, and hid it in his bosom, determined to file it. Before long, Miao arrived and explained the whole matter in detail, begging Li to help him settle it. He said, “I am a farmer; in half my life I have never seen a magistrate. If only I can drop the suit, I would not dare to claim those few peach trees as my own.” Li called Liu out and told him of Miao’s willingness to yield. Liu again pointed to the sky and the earth, cursing without end; Miao only replied with a mild expression and humble words, not daring to argue. After they parted, four or five days later, word came from Liu’s village that Liu had died. Li was shocked and sighed. Another day, when Li went elsewhere, he saw a man leaning on a staff coming toward him—it was unmistakably Liu. When they met, Liu greeted him warmly and invited him to his home. Li hesitated and asked, “A few days ago I suddenly heard of your death—how could that have been so false?” Liu did not answer, but only pulled him into the village and to his house, where he set out wine and food. Then he said, “The report the other day was not false. A while ago, when I went out, I saw two men coming to seize me and take me before the authorities. I asked what the matter was, but they said they did not know. I thought to myself, I have frequented government offices for decades—I am not afraid of officials, nor was I terrified. I followed them to the public hall, where I saw a man facing south with an angry expression. He said, ‘Are you so-and-so? Your crimes are manifold and you have never repented; moreover, you have taken others’ property as your own. For such tyranny, you deserve to be boiled in a cauldron!’ One official checked the records and said, ‘This man has one good deed, so he should not die.’ The man facing south looked at the record, and his expression softened somewhat. He then said, ‘Send him back for now.’ Dozens of men shouted in unison to drive me out. I said, ‘For what reason did you summon me? And for what reason do you send me away? I beg you to make it clear.’ The clerk brought down the register and showed me one entry. It recorded: In the thirteenth year of Chongzhen, he used three hundred coins to rescue a husband and wife and reunite them. The clerk said, ‘Without this, today your life would have ended and you would have fallen into the animal realm.’ I was terrified, and then I followed the two men out. They demanded a bribe. I angrily said, ‘Do you not know that I, Liu, have been in and out of government offices for twenty years and have specialized in extorting money from others? How dare you ask a tiger for meat?’ So the two said nothing more. They escorted me to the village, bowed with clasped hands, and said, ‘On this errand we have not even taken a sip of water.’ After they left, I entered the door and revived; by then I had been dead for two days.” Li heard this with astonishment and asked him the whole story of that good deed. It turned out that in the thirteenth year of Chongzhen, there was a great famine, and people ate one another. Liu was then in Zi, serving as a constable. He happened to see a man and woman weeping bitterly, and asked them why. They replied, “We have been married only a little more than a year, and now with this famine we cannot both survive, so we grieve.” Shortly afterward, he saw them again in front of an oil shop, apparently in a dispute. He went closer and asked. The shopkeeper, surnamed Ma, said, “This couple is starving to death. They come to me every day begging for sesame paste to stay alive. Now they want to sell the woman to me. I have already bought more than ten people in my household. What does this matter? If the price is low, I will buy; if not, then forget it. How ridiculous—they keep pestering me!” The man then said, “Now grain is as costly as pearls; I reckon that without three hundred coins I cannot cover the expenses of fleeing the famine. I originally wanted us both to live; if selling my wife still does not save me from death, how dare I do it? I do not dare ask a high price, but only pray that you will act with hidden merit.” Liu pitied them, and asked Ma how much he would pay. Ma said, “Today a woman’s price is only about a hundred.” Liu asked him not to reduce the amount and offered to contribute half the price. Ma refused. Liu, who had always been hot-tempered, said to the man, “He is petty and not worth dealing with. I will give you the full amount. If you can flee the famine and keep your family intact, would that not be better?” He then took out his purse and gave the money to him. The husband and wife wept, bowed, and left. When Liu finished telling this, Li praised him greatly. After this, Liu abruptly changed his ways; he is now over seventy and still healthy. Last year, Li went to Zhou Village and saw Liu arguing with someone; a crowd surrounded them trying to mediate but could not stop them. Li laughed and called out, “Are you going to sue over the peach trees again?” Liu suddenly looked abashed, changed his expression, mumbled, and withdrew his hands, retreating. The Historian of the Strange remarks: “The brothers Li Cuishi were both well-off commoners. Yet Cuishi was especially honest and prudent, fond of doing good, and never took pride in his wealth—he was truly a modest and sincere gentleman. From his settling disputes and encouraging goodness, his whole life can be known. The ancients said: ‘The wealthy are not of two minds.’ I do not know whether Cuishi was benevolent first and then became wealthy, or wealthy first and then benevolent?” Shao Nü Chai Tingbin was a man of Taiping. His wife, née Jin, bore no children and was exceedingly jealous. Chai bought a concubine for a hundred taels of silver, but Jin treated her cruelly, and within a year she died. Chai left in anger and slept alone for several months, not entering his wife’s chamber. One day, it was Chai’s birthday. Jin, with humble words and formal manners, offered felicitations for her husband’s longevity. Chai could not bear to refuse her, and so they began to speak and laugh again. Jin set out a feast in the inner chamber and invited Chai in. Chai excused himself, saying he was drunk. Jin, adorned in her finest, went personally to Chai’s quarters and said, “I have exerted my utmost sincerity all day long. If you are indeed drunk, then please take but one cup before we part.” Chai then entered, and they drank and talked. His wife said calmly, “The other day I wrongfully killed that maidservant, and now I deeply regret it. Why should you harbor enmity and suspicion, so that there is no longer any bond of wedded love? Hereafter, if I admit twelve golden hairpins, I shall not hold you to account.” Chai grew all the more pleased. The candle burned down to its socket, and so he stayed the night there. From then on, their respect and affection were as before. Jin then called for a matchmaker and charged her to look for a suitable concubine; but in secret she delayed the matchmaker and told her not to report back, while herself feigning to urge her on. This went on for over a year. Chai could not wait, and entrusted his relatives and friends everywhere to procure one for him, and thus he obtained the adopted daughter of the Lin family. At first sight, Jin’s face lit up with joy. She shared food and drink with her, and let her take whatever cosmetics, hair oils, flowers, and bracelets she wished. But Lin, being a native of Yan, was not versed in needlework; apart from embroidered shoes, everything else required someone else’s help. Jin said, “Our household has always been diligent and frugal, not like the families of kings and nobles who buy women merely to look at as if they were paintings.” Thereupon she gave her fine brocades and made her learn to sew, acting like a stern tutor teaching a disciple. At first she scolded her, and then she flogged her. Chai’s heart ached acutely, but he could do nothing to help her. Yet Jin’s affection for Lin was even greater than before; she would often dress her herself and apply powder and rouge. But if the heel of a shoe showed the slightest crease, she would strike her delicate feet with an iron staff; if her hair was somewhat disheveled, she would slap her cheeks. Lin could not endure such cruelty and hanged herself. Chai’s heart and eyes were filled with grief, and he voiced considerable resentment. His wife became angry and said, “I was teaching your wife for you—what fault is there in that?” Chai then perceived her treachery, and once again they fell out, forever断绝 of marital harmony. Secretly, he set about building chambers in a separate villa, thinking to buy a beauty and live apart with her. Half a year dragged by without his finding such a person. By chance he met at a friend’s funeral a young girl of sixteen, whose radiant beauty dazzled the eye; he stared fixedly, his spirit enthralled. The girl, annoyed by his bold gaze, shot him a sidelong glance from her bright eyes. He asked about her and learned that she was of the Shao family. Shao was a poor scholar and had only this daughter. She had been clever since childhood; when taught to read, she understood after a single glance. She especially liked to read the Inner Canon and the Book of Physiognomy. Her father doted on her excessively. When a marriage proposal came, he would always let her choose for herself; but among both rich and poor suitors, few met with her approval, and so at seventeen she was still not betrothed. Having learned the full story, Chai knew that she was not to be won, yet his heart lingered over her. He also hoped that, since her family was poor, she might be moved by profit. He consulted several matchmakers, but none dared to act as go-between, and so he lost heart and had no further hopes. Suddenly, an old woman named Jia, who dealt in pearls, passed by Chai’s house. Chai told her his wish and bribed her with a substantial sum, saying, “I only ask that you convey my sincere intention; whether it succeeds or not, I shall not hold you responsible. If by any chance it can be arranged, I will not begrudge a thousand taels of gold.” The old woman, tempted by the profit, agreed. She went to the Shaos’ gate and deliberately chatted with Shao’s wife. Catching sight of the daughter, she exclaimed in wonder, “What a fine young lady! If she were to enter the Zhaoyang Palace, the Zhao sisters would not be worth mentioning!” She then asked, “And who is the groom’s family?” Shao’s wife replied, “Not yet.” The old woman said, “With such a young lady, why worry about having kings and marquises as noble guests?” Shao’s wife sighed and said, “I dare not hope for a king or marquis’s house; only to get a scholar’s seed would be good enough. But this little wretch of mine keeps picking and choosing, and nine out of ten do not please her—I do not understand what she has in mind.” The old woman said, “Madam, do not be vexed. With such a beauty, one must wonder what blessings she cultivated in a former life to be able to enjoy her! Yesterday there was a great joke: that young master Chai said that he had seen her looks beside a certain grave mound, and was willing to offer a thousand taels in betrothal gifts. Is that not like a hungry kite dreaming of being a swan? I drove him off with a scolding!” Shao’s wife smiled but did not answer. The old woman said, “Even if he is a scholar, it is hard to argue with him; if it were someone else, losing a foot to gain a yard, that should be worth considering.” Shao’s wife again smiled and said nothing. The old woman clapped her hands and said, “If that is the case, then this old woman has also miscalculated. I have long been favored by Madam; whenever I come to your hall, you have me sit close and offer me wine. If I were to gain a thousand taels, with carriages and horses going out and towers and chambers going in, then when this old woman came again to your gate, the doorman would scold and drive me away!” Shao’s wife pondered for a long while, then rose and went to speak with her husband. After a time, she called for her daughter; after another time, all three came out together. Shao’s wife said with a smile, “This girl is extraordinary. She would not take any of the many fine matches, yet as soon as she hears of becoming a lowly concubine, she accepts it. But I fear she will be laughed at by the scholarly community!” The old woman said, “If she enters that household and bears a little boy, what would the senior wife matter then!” Having said that, she told them of the plan for a separate residence. Shao was even more pleased, and called to his daughter, “Try telling this to Old Jia yourself. This is your own decision—do not regret it later and reproach your parents.” The girl, abashed, said, “If my parents can enjoy generous support, then my filial duty is fulfilled. Moreover, I consider my own lot to be ill-fated; if I were to get a fine match, I would surely shorten my lifespan. To suffer a little hardship instead may not be a misfortune. Previously I saw that Master Chai also has a fortunate physiognomy, and his descendants are certain to prosper.” The old woman was overjoyed and rushed back to report. Chai’s delight surpassed his hopes. He immediately presented a thousand taels of silver, prepared carriages and horses, and married the girl in his separate villa, so that none of the household dared to speak of it. The girl said to Chai, “Your plan is what they call ‘a swallow nesting on a tent curtain’—not a scheme for even a morning or evening. To stop all mouths and guard all tongues in the hope of keeping it secret—how can that be achieved? Better to return home early; then the revelation will come sooner, and the disaster will be smaller.” Chai feared that she would be tormented. The girl said, “There is no one under heaven who cannot be transformed. If I have no faults, how can anger arise?” Chai said, “Not so. This is an extraordinary shrew, not to be moved by reason or sentiment.” The girl said, “I am but a lowly concubine; to be broken and humiliated is only what I deserve. Otherwise, to live from day to day, how long can that last?” Chai thought she was right, but still he hesitated and dared not decide. One day, Chai went elsewhere. The girl, dressed in plain clothes, ordered an old servant to lead an old mare, and with an old woman carrying a bundle following her, she went straight to the legal wife’s quarters, where she prostrated herself and made her statement. At first the wife was angry; but then, reflecting that her voluntary surrender could be forgiven, and seeing that her appearance and manner were humble, her anger subsided somewhat. She then ordered a maidservant to bring out fine brocade robes and dress her in them. She said, “That fickle man has spread evil reports about me among the people, causing me to be slandered everywhere. In truth, it is all because the man is unrighteous and the maidservants were without conduct, and these things provoked me. You should consider: is a man who abandons his wife and sets up another household still a human being?” The girl said, “I have closely observed him, and he seems somewhat repentant, but he will not humble himself. As the proverb says, ‘The elder does not submit to the younger.’ In terms of propriety: a wife toward her husband is like a son toward his father, or a concubine toward the legal wife. If Madam would be willing to show him a gentle face and kind words, then all accumulated resentment can be entirely wiped away.” The wife said, “He does not come to me himself—how am I involved?” She then ordered maidservants and old women to prepare a chamber for her. Although her heart was not pleased, she temporarily let her stay there. When Chai heard that the girl had returned, he was greatly alarmed, thinking privately that a lamb entering a tiger’s den would already have been savagely mauled. He hurried over, but when he saw that the household was quiet, his heart began to steady. The girl met him at the gate and urged him to go to the wife’s quarters. Chai looked reluctant. The girl wept, and Chai’s resolve softened somewhat. The girl went to see the wife and said, “The master has just returned, but he is ashamed and has no face to see Madam. I beg Madam to go and smile at him.” The wife refused to go. The girl said, “I have already said: a husband toward his wife is like the legal wife toward a concubine. Meng Guang raised the tray, yet people did not consider it flattery—why? Because their respective stations made it so.” The wife then followed her, and when she saw Chai, she said, “You cunning rabbit have three burrows—why have you returned?” Chai hung his head and did not answer. The girl nudged him with her elbow, and only then did Chai force a smile. The wife’s expression somewhat softened, and she was about to turn back. The girl pushed Chai to follow her, and also instructed the cook to prepare refreshments. From then on, husband and wife were reconciled again. The girl rose early, dressed plainly, and went to pay her morning respects; after the wife had washed, she presented the towel, and performed the duties of a maidservant with great reverence. When Chai came to her chamber, she firmly declined him, and only after ten-odd nights did she consent to receive him once. The wife also came to regard her as worthy in her heart; yet she felt ashamed that she was not her equal, and this shame accumulated into jealousy. But the girl served her with such care that there was no flaw to seize upon; if she was lightly scolded or reproved, the girl only accepted it submissively. One night, the husband and wife had a small quarrel, and even at her morning toilet she still bore a fierce anger. The girl held up the mirror for her; it fell and broke. The wife grew even more enraged, seizing her hair and glaring with splitting eyes. The girl, terrified, knelt at length and begged for mercy with tears. But her anger would not relent, and she flogged her several tens of strokes. Chai could bear it no longer; in a surge of rage he rushed in, dragged the girl out, and the wife, clamoring, pursued and struck at her. Chai, furious, snatched the whip and struck back, splitting the skin of her face before she withdrew. From then on, husband and wife were as enemies. Chai forbade the girl to go near her. The girl would not obey; rising early, she knelt and crawled about outside the curtain, waiting on her. The wife pounded her bed and cursed in rage, ordering her away and refusing to let her approach. Day and night she gnashed her teeth, intending to wait until Chai went out before venting her spite on the girl. Chai, knowing this, declined all social engagements, shut the doors, and received no visitors. The wife could do nothing but daily beat the maids and old women to vent her hatred, until the servants could all bear it no longer. Since husband and wife had broken off relations, the girl dared not take her turn at night, and Chai therefore slept alone. When the wife heard this, her mind was somewhat eased. There was an older maidservant, always crafty and sly, who happened to speak with Chai once; the wife suspected them of intimacy and abused her most cruelly. The maidservant then, whenever alone, would tear at her hair and curse in resentment. One evening, when it was this maidservant's turn to keep watch at night, the girl warned Chai to keep her away, saying, "There is a murderous look on her face; her intentions are unfathomable." Chai followed her advice, summoned the maidservant, and asked deceptively, "What are you up to?" The maidservant was so terrified she could not find words. Chai, more suspicious, searched her clothing and found a sharp knife. The maidservant said nothing, only prostrated herself on the ground and begged to die. Chai wanted to flog her, but the girl stopped him, saying, "I fear that if the mistress hears of this, this maid will have no chance to live. Her crime is indeed unforgivable, but it would be better to sell her. That would preserve her life, and we would also have our case made clear." Chai agreed. Just then a man seeking a concubine arrived, and they promptly sold her off. The wife, because this had been done without consulting her, blamed Chai and, in turn, became even more incensed at the girl, cursing her all the more venomously. Chai, vexed, turned to the girl and said, "This is all your own doing. If you had killed her earlier, today's troubles would not exist." With that he left. The wife, puzzled by his words, questioned everyone around her, but none knew anything; she asked the girl, and the girl would not speak either. Her heart grew more sullen and angry, and she seized the girl's skirt and railed at her wildly. Chai then returned and told her the truth. The wife was greatly startled and spoke gently to the girl; yet in her heart she resented all the more that the girl had not told her earlier. Chai, thinking the old enmity was now entirely dissolved, took no further precautions. It happened that he went away on a journey, and the wife summoned the girl and reproached her, saying, "The crime of plotting against one's master is unpardonable; what was in your heart that you let her go?" The girl, flustered, could not frame her words in reply. The wife heated an iron and branded the girl's face, meaning to destroy her beauty. The maids and old women were all indignant on her behalf. At every cry of pain, the whole household wept and begged to die in her place. The wife therefore stopped branding her and pierced her ribs more than twenty times with a needle, then drove her away. When Chai returned and saw the wounds on her face, he flew into a rage and would have gone to confront her. The girl caught his sleeve and said, "I knew full well this was a fiery pit, yet I deliberately walked into it. When I married you, did I take your home for paradise? I simply deemed myself ill-fated and sought only to vent the anger of creation a little. If I bear it with composure, there will still come an end; but if I provoke her again, it will be like filling in a pit only to dig it out anew." She then applied medicine to the wounds, and within days they healed. Suddenly she took up a mirror and said joyfully, "Today you should congratulate me—she has burned away my ill-omened lines!" Morning and evening she served the lawful wife as before. Jin, having seen the household weeping before, knew herself to be a solitary despot and felt the first stirrings of shame and remorse. From time to time she summoned the girl to attend to matters with her, and her words and manner became gentle. After a month or so, Jin suddenly suffered from a wasting sickness that prevented her from eating. Chai, hating that she did not die, paid her no heed whatsoever. After several days, her belly swelled like a drum, and day and night she grew more grievously ill. The girl attended her without rest, forgetting sleep and meals, and Jin grew all the more grateful to her. The girl offered her medical knowledge of her own accord; but Jin, conscious of her past cruelty, suspected the girl of retaliating through the medicine, and so declined it. Jin had always managed the household with strictness, and all the maids and servants had submitted to her discipline; but since her illness, they had all grown lax and done no work. Chai took charge himself, laboring most bitterly, yet the household provisions, without anyone eating them, somehow consumed themselves. Thus with a sigh he thought of restoring the domestic management, and he engaged physicians and medicines for her. Jin would always tell people that her illness was a "Qi Gu" (vapors worm), and so every physician who felt her pulse diagnosed it as qi depression. She changed physicians several times, but none proved effective, and she was near death. They were about to decoct another dose when the girl stepped forward and said, "Such medicines, even a hundred packets, will be of no benefit—they will only make things worse." Jin did not believe her. The girl secretly took another prescription and substituted it. After the medicine was taken, within the space of a meal she had three evacuations, and the illness vanished as if it had never been. Jin then laughed all the more at the girl's words as nonsense, and groaning, called out to her, "You Hua Tuo, what do you say now?" The girl and the maids all laughed. Jin asked the reason, and they told her the truth. Weeping, she said, "All this time I have lived under your shelter without knowing it! From now on, I beg you to take charge of all household affairs, and I will follow your directions." Not long after, she recovered, and Chai made a feast to celebrate. The girl held the flagon and waited at her side; Jin rose of her own accord, took the flagon from her, drew her arm in hers, and showed her affection beyond the ordinary. When the night was far advanced, the girl begged leave to withdraw; Jin sent two maids to pull her back, insisting that she share her bed. From then on, they consulted over every matter, ate together at every meal, and even sisters were not so harmonious. Before long, the girl gave birth to a son. After the delivery she suffered many illnesses, and Jin personally attended to her, as if serving an aged mother. Later Jin was afflicted with heart pain; when the attack came, her face turned green and she wished only to die. The girl hurriedly bought several silver needles—by the time she arrived, Jin's breath was nearly gone—and pressing the acupoints, pierced them; instantly the pain ceased. After ten days or so it recurred, and she pierced again; after six or seven days it came again. Though the treatment worked each time and spared her the worst agony, Jin's heart was ever anxious, fearing the attack would return. One night she dreamed she went to a place like a temple, where all the deities and spirits in the hall were moving. A spirit asked, "Are you Lady Jin? Your sins are many; your allotted span should have ended. But because we take account of your repentance, we have sent only this calamity as a minor punishment. The two maids you killed before—this is their retribution. As for Lady Shao, what crime had she that you treated her so cruelly? The floggings have already been repaid by Chai on your behalf, and this may serve as set-off. But you still owe one branding and twenty-three needle-pricks. Now after three attacks, you have only paid off the odd amount—and you expect the root of the malady to be removed? Tomorrow it will come again!" She awoke in great fear, though she still hoped it was but a delusive dream. After eating, the illness indeed returned, with pain twice as intense. The girl came and pierced her, and at once she was relieved. She said doubtfully, "My skill goes no further than this; why has the root of the illness not been pulled out? Let me cauterize it again. This cannot be done without deep burning, but I fear you cannot endure it." Jin, recalling the words in her dream, showed no sign of reluctance. Yet as she groaned and endured the burning, she reflected within herself that she still owed nineteen needle-pricks, and she did not know what new symptoms might arise. It would be better to suffer them all at once, so as to avoid future pain. When the moxa cone had burned out, she begged the girl to needle her again. The girl laughed and said, "Needling cannot be applied so indiscriminately!" Jin said, "You need not mind the acupoints—only trouble yourself to give me nineteen pricks." The girl laughed and would not do it. Jin pleaded all the more earnestly, rising and kneeling on the bed. The girl could not bear it in the end, and Jin told her the dream truthfully. The girl then roughly followed the meridians and needled her the required number of times. After this she recovered completely, and the illness indeed did not return. From then on she redoubled her repentance and showed no harshness toward those beneath her. The son was named Jun; he was handsome and brilliant beyond compare. The girl often said, "This child has the look of a Hanlin scholar." At eight he was renowned as a child prodigy; at fifteen, he took the jinshi degree and was appointed to the Hanlin Academy. At that time Chai and his wife were forty, and the secondary wife about thirty-two or thirty-three. When she returned home in her carriage and with attendants, the whole village gloried in it. Old Shao, after selling his daughter, had suddenly grown wealthy, but the scholars of the district were ashamed to associate with him; only now did some begin to have dealings with him again. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Cunning jealousy in women is inherent in their nature. And those who are concubines again flaunt their charms and maneuver their schemes, only to increase that anger. Alas! Thus does calamity arise. But if one finds peace in her lot and keeps her station, unswerving through a hundred trials—how could whip or blade ever touch her? It is only after she had twice saved her from death that the first shoots of repentance appeared. Alas! Was that human? The debt was paid to the full, without added interest—that too was the Creator's leniency. Yet to turn a benevolent art into an instrument of retribution—is that not perverse? I have often seen foolish folk, nursing their ailments all day long, summon ignorant shamans and let them pierce their flesh and burn their skin without daring to groan, and I have always marveled at it. Only now do I understand." A man of Fujian took a concubine. On the evening of the wedding, he entered his wife's chambers but dared not leave immediately; he pretended to unlace his shoes and make as if to climb onto the bed. His wife said, "Go away! Do not put on airs!" The husband still lingered. His wife said with a stern countenance, "I am not like those jealous wives of other households—why must you carry on so?" The husband then left. The wife lay alone, tossing and turning unable to sleep, so she rose and went to crouch outside the door to eavesdrop. She could only hear the concubine's voice faintly, not very clear, save for the two characters "Langba" which she could roughly make out. "Langba" is what the people of Fujian call their fathers. The wife listened for a while longer, then swooned with phlegm and fell, her head striking the door with a sound. The husband, startled, rose and opened the door; the corpse toppled in. He called for the concubine to bring a light—it was his wife. He hurriedly lifted her and administered a restorative. Her eyes barely opened, and she immediately groaned, "Whose 'Langba' are you calling?" Her jealous disposition was laughable. Gong Xian The Daoist Gong had no given name, nor did anyone know whence he came. He once sought an audience with the Prince of Lu, but the gatekeeper would not announce him. A eunuch of the inner palace came out, and Gong made a bow and begged his assistance. The eunuch, seeing his humble and uncouth appearance, drove him away; but soon he returned. The eunuch, angered, drove him off again and struck him as well. When they reached a place without onlookers, the Daoist smiled and produced two hundred taels of gold, which he presented to the one who had driven him off, with the request: "Tell the eunuch for me: I do not actually wish to see His Highness; I have only heard that the flowers, trees, pavilions, and terraces in the rear garden are the finest pleasure grounds in the mortal world. If he could lead me on a tour, my life would be complete." He also bribed the gatekeeper with silver. The man, delighted, reported back. The eunuch was also pleased and led the Daoist in through the rear gate, so that he could view all the sights. He then took him up the tower. As the eunuch was leaning on the railing by the window, the Daoist gave him a push—and the eunuch felt his body fall outside the tower, with a fine silk cord binding his waist, suspended in midair. Looking down, his eyes spun at the height and depth; the cord faintly made sounds as if about to break. Terrified, he cried out loudly. Soon several eunuchs arrived and were shocked. Seeing that he was vastly far from the ground, they climbed the tower and looked together—the end of the cord was tied to the lattice; they wanted to untie it and pull him up, but the cord was too thin to bear force. They searched everywhere for the Daoist, but he had vanished. At a loss, they reported the matter to the Prince of Lu. The Prince came to look and found it most extraordinary. He ordered straw mats and cotton fluff laid below the tower, so that they could cut the cord and let him fall. No sooner had this been done than the cord snapped with a crack—and the eunuch was less than a foot from the ground. All laughed at the sight. The Prince ordered inquiries made as to where the Daoist might be. He heard that the Daoist was lodging at the home of the scholar Shang, and went to ask after him, but he had gone out and not yet returned. Later, the Prince met him on the road and had him brought for an audience. The Prince gave him a banquet and a seat, and asked him to perform some feats. The Daoist said, "I am but a rustic, with no other talent to offer. Yet since I have received such gracious favor, I dare present some female entertainers to offer Your Highness long life." He then reached into his sleeve, produced a beautiful woman, and set her on the ground; she made obeisance to the Prince. The Daoist ordered her to perform the piece "The Banquet of the Jade Pool," to wish the Prince ten thousand years. The woman spoke a few lines on stage. The Daoist then produced another figure, who announced herself as "The Queen Mother of the West." Shortly after, Dong Shuangcheng, Xu Feiqiong, and all the immortal maidens came forth one after another. Last of all came the Weaving Maiden to pay her respects, presenting a celestial robe—dazzling with gold and color, its radiance filling the entire hall. The Prince suspected it was counterfeit and asked to examine it. The Daoist hastily said, "You must not!" But the Prince would not listen, and at last looked at it—it was truly a seamless garment, not something mortal hands could make. The Daoist, displeased, said, "I devoted all my sincerity to serve Your Highness, borrowing these for a while from the celestial maidens; now that they have been tainted by mundane vapors, how shall I return them to their original owners?" The Prince then suspected that the singers must be immortal maidens, and thought to detain one or two of them; but on closer inspection, they turned out to be none other than the court entertainers themselves. He was further puzzled that they did not know this piece by heart, and on questioning them, they were indeed bewildered and did not know how they had performed it. The Daoist took the robe and placed it in the fire, then tucked it back into his sleeve; when he searched again, it was already gone. The Prince thereupon held the Daoist in deep esteem and asked him to stay in the palace. The Daoist said, "My rustic nature regards palaces as cages and pens; I would rather have the freedom of the scholar's home." Every night at midnight he would return to Shang's residence; sometimes, when firmly detained, he would stay the night. At banquets he would often amuse himself by making the four seasons' flowers and trees appear and disappear in reverse order. The Prince asked him, "I have heard that even immortals cannot entirely forget human feelings—is that true?" He replied, "That may be so for some immortals; but I am no immortal, so my heart is like withered wood." One night, when he was staying in the palace, the Prince sent a young female entertainer to test him. She entered his chamber and called out several times, but he did not answer. She brought a light and saw him sitting motionless on the bed with closed eyes. She shook him; his eyes flickered open for an instant, then closed again. She shook him once more, and he began to snore. She pushed him, and he fell over at her touch, lying in deep slumber with thunderous snores. She tapped his forehead, and her finger met a sound like iron. She returned and reported this to the Prince. The Prince had a needle thrust into him, but the needle would not penetrate. He was pushed, but could not be moved; more than ten men lifted him and threw him off the bed, and he fell like a thousand-pound stone to the floor. In the morning they peeked in, and he was still asleep on the ground. He woke with a laugh, saying, "What a heavy sleep—I fell off the bed without even knowing it!" After that, the women would press on him for sport whenever he sat or lay down: at first he was still soft, but with a second press he became like iron or stone. The Daoist stayed at the scholar Shang's house, and often did not return at midnight. Shang would lock his door, yet when dawn came and he opened it, the Daoist would already be in the room. At first, Shang had been intimate with the songstress Huige, and had vowed to marry her. Huige was an excellent singer, and her skill with strings and pipes was unmatched in her day. The Prince of Lu, hearing of her fame, summoned her into the palace as an entertainer, and their relationship was thus broken off. Shang constantly longed for her, but had no way to communicate. One evening, he asked the Daoist, "Have you seen Huige?" The Daoist answered, "I have seen all the ladies, but I do not know which one is Huige." Shang described her appearance and gave her age, and the Daoist then recalled her. Shang begged him to deliver a message. The Daoist laughed and said, "I am a man outside the world; I cannot be your messenger." Shang entreated him without end. The Daoist opened his sleeve and said, "If you must see her, pray enter this." Shang peered inside—within it was as large as a room. He bent down and entered, finding it bright and thoroughly illuminated, as wide as a hall, with tables, couches, and every article present. While inside, he felt no oppression or tedium. The Daoist went into the palace and played chess with the Prince. When he saw Huige approaching, he casually flicked his sleeve as if to brush away dust, and Huige was drawn into his sleeve, unseen by anyone else. Shang was sitting alone in deep thought when suddenly a beauty dropped from the eaves—and when he looked, it was Huige. They were both overjoyed and shared an intimate reunion. Shang said, "This wondrous fate today must not go unrecorded. Let me compose verses with you." He wrote on the wall: "The gate of the prince's house is deep as the sea—long have I been lost to sight." Huige continued: "Who would have known that now I meet my Xiao Lang again?" Shang wrote: "Within the sleeve, the cosmos is truly vast—" Huige finished: "Embracing all parted lovers and longing wives." No sooner had they finished writing than five men entered, wearing eight-cornered hats and light red robes. Shang recognized none of them. Without a word, they seized Huige and carried her off. Shang, terrified, could not imagine what had happened. When the Daoist returned, he called Shang out and questioned him about the affair; Shang concealed part of the truth and did not speak fully. The Daoist smiled, removed his robe, and turned the sleeve inside out to show him. Shang examined it closely—faint traces of writing appeared, characters as fine as lice, which were precisely the verses they had inscribed. Over the next ten-odd days, he begged to enter once more. In all, he entered three times. Hui Ge said to Shang, "I feel movements in my belly, and I am very worried about it. I often bind my waist tightly with silk bands. There are many eyes and ears in the residence; if one day I am about to give birth, where can a baby's cries be accommodated? I beg you to consult Immortal Gong and ask that when he sees me pressing my hands to my waist three times, he come to my rescue." Shang promised her. He returned and saw the Daoist, then prostrated himself on the ground and would not rise. The Daoist pulled him up and said, "What you have said, I already know clearly. But please do not worry. Your ancestral line depends on this single thread—how would I dare not exhaust my meager efforts? Only from now on you need not enter again. What I use to repay you was not originally a matter of personal affection." Several months later, the Daoist entered from outside and said with a laugh, "I have brought the young master. Quickly bring the swaddling clothes!" Shang's wife was most virtuous, nearly thirty years old, and though she had conceived several times, only one son had survived; just recently she had given birth to a daughter, but she died after a full month. When she heard Shang's words, she came out in surprise and delight. The Daoist reached into his sleeve and produced an infant, sound asleep as if in a dream, the stump of its umbilical cord still not yet severed. Shang's wife took it in her arms, and only then did it begin to cry lustily. The Daoist took off his robe and said, "Birthing blood stains the clothes—this is what Daoists most avoid. Now for your sake, I must cast away this old garment of twenty years." Shang exchanged clothes with him. The Daoist instructed, "Do not discard this old thing. Burn a little of it, and it can cure difficult labor and expel stillborn fetuses." Shang followed his words. After dwelling there for a long time again, the Daoist suddenly told Shang, "Of the old monk's robe I stored with you, you should keep a small portion for your own use. After I am dead, do not forget it either." Shang thought his words ominous. The Daoist said no more and departed. He went in to see the Prince and said, "I wish to die!" The Prince asked in alarm why, and he replied, "There is a fixed number for this—what more is there to say?" The Prince did not believe him and insisted he stay. They played one game of go, then he rose abruptly; the Prince again stopped him. He asked to be allowed to go to an outer chamber, and the Prince consented. The Daoist went in haste and lay down; when they looked at him, he was already dead. The Prince prepared a coffin and buried him with proper rites. Shang came to weep in utmost grief, and only then did he realize that what the Daoist had said before was indeed a prior notification. The left-behind robe was used to induce labor, and it worked like an echo; those who sought it came in a continuous line at the gate. At first they were given the stained sleeves; afterward the collar and neckbands were cut off, and none failed to be effective. When Shang heard the Daoist's instructions, he suspected that his wife would surely encounter childbirth difficulties, so he cut a piece of the blood-stained cloth the size of a palm and treasured it carefully. It happened that the Prince of Lu had a beloved consort who was in labor for three days without delivery, and the physicians had exhausted their art. Someone mentioned Shang, and he was immediately summoned; with one dose she gave birth. The Prince was greatly pleased and bestowed generous amounts of white silver and colored silks, but Shang declined them all and would not accept. The Prince asked what he desired, and he said, "I dare not speak." When pressed again, he knocked his head to the ground and said, "If Your Highness would extend heavenly favor, only grant me the old courtesan Hui Ge, and that will suffice." The Prince summoned her and asked her age. She said, "I entered the residence at eighteen; now it has been fourteen years." The Prince, considering her age somewhat advanced, ordered all the courtesans to be called forth and let Shang choose for himself; Shang had no liking for any of them. The Prince laughed and said, "What a foolish scholar! Did you make a marriage pact ten years ago?" Shang told him the truth. Thereupon the Prince had a carriage and horses prepared in full state, and taking the colored silks that Shang had declined, made them into a trousseau for Hui Ge, and sent her out. The son borne by Hui was named Xiusheng—Xiu meaning "sleeve"; at that time he was already eleven years old. Daily he remembered the Immortal's kindness, and at Qingming he would go to tend his grave. There was a man who had long been traveling in Sichuan who encountered the Daoist on the road. The Daoist produced a scroll and said, "This is an object from the residence; when I came away in haste, I had no leisure to return it, so I trouble you to take it back." When the traveler returned, he heard that the Daoist was already dead, and dared not present it to the Prince; Shang submitted it on his behalf. The Prince unrolled and looked at it—it was indeed what the Daoist had borrowed. Suspicious, he had the grave opened; it was an empty coffin. Later, Shang's younger son died young, and it fell to Xiusheng to carry on the line, which made Shang all the more convinced of Immortal Gong's foreknowledge. Yi Shi Shi said: "'A universe within a sleeve'—this is but a fable of the ancients. Could it truly exist? And yet how wondrous it is! Within it there is heaven and earth, there are sun and moon; one may take a wife and beget children, and yet be free from the torment of tax collection and the vexations of human affairs. Then the lice and fleas within that sleeve—how are they different from the chickens and dogs of Peach Blossom Spring! If one could be allowed to dwell there forever, one might grow old in that land." Er Shang In the district of Ju there was a family named Shang. The elder brother was rich, while the younger brother was poor; they lived next door to each other. During the Kangxi reign, there was a great famine year, and the younger brother could not even provide for himself from morning to night. One day, when noon was approaching, they had not yet lit the fire to cook; famished and pacing about, they could think of no plan. His wife urged him to go tell his elder brother, but Shang said: "It is useless. If my elder brother pitied my poverty, he would have long since made some provision for this." His wife insisted, so Shang sent their son. After a short while, he returned empty-handed. Shang said: "What did I tell you!" His wife pressed for details of what their uncle had said. The son replied: "Uncle hesitated, looking at Aunt, and Aunt told me: 'Brothers have divided households; each has his own meals to eat. Who can look after another now?'" The husband and wife were speechless, and for the time being they managed to exchange some broken pots and a worn-out bed for a little chaff and husks to sustain themselves. Three or four young ruffians in the village, seeing that the elder Shang was well-off, climbed over the wall at night and entered. The husband and wife woke in fright, clanging washbasins and shouting. The neighbors all harbored grudges against them, and none came to help. In desperation, they called out loudly for Second Shang. When Second Shang heard his sister-in-law's cries, he wanted to rush to the rescue, but his wife stopped him, and she called out loudly to his sister-in-law: "Brothers have divided households; each bears his own misfortunes. Who can look after another now?" Shortly after, the bandits broke down the door, seized the elder Shang and his wife, and tortured them with branding irons; their screams were extremely pitiful. Second Shang then said: "He may have been heartless, but how can I sit by and watch my elder brother die without rescuing him?" He led his son over the wall, shouting loudly. Second Shang and his son were known for their martial prowess and were feared by others; moreover, the bandits feared the alarm would bring other rescuers, so they fled. Looking at his elder brother and sister-in-law, their thighs were burned black; he helped them onto the bed, summoned the servants, and then returned home. Though the elder Shang had been injured, none of his gold and silk had been lost. He said to his wife: "What is left now is all thanks to younger brother; we should share some with him." His wife said: "If you had such a good younger brother, you would not have suffered this!" So the elder Shang said no more. Second Shang's household was starving, and he expected his elder brother to give something in return; but after a long time, nothing was heard. His wife could not wait, so she sent their son with a bag to borrow from him, and he returned with a single dou of grain. His wife was angry at how little it was and wanted to return it; Second Shang stopped her. After another two months, poverty and hunger became even more unbearable. Second Shang said: "Now there is no way to make a living; we might as well sell our house to elder brother. Elder brother, fearing that we might move away, might perhaps return the deed and give us aid—one cannot know; even if not, we could get over ten taels of silver and still manage to survive." His wife agreed, and sent their son with the deed to see the elder Shang. The elder Shang told his wife, saying: "Even if younger brother is unkind, he is still my own flesh and blood. If he leaves, I stand alone; better to return his deed and help him." His wife said: "Not so. His talk of leaving is a way of coercing us; if we do that, we fall right into his scheme. Are there no brothers in the world, then must everyone die? If I build our walls higher, that is enough to secure us. Better to accept his deed, let him go where he will, and we can also expand our house." The plan set, they had Second Shang sign at the end of the deed, paid him the price, and he left. Second Shang then moved to a neighboring village. The unruly elements in the countryside, hearing that Second Shang had left, attacked again. They again seized the elder Shang, subjected him to flogging and torture, and inflicted cruel torments; all his gold and valuables were used to ransom his life. Before leaving, the bandits opened his granary and called the poor villagers to take whatever they wanted; in a moment it was all gone. The next day, Second Shang only then heard of it, and when he rushed over to see, his elder brother was already unconscious and unable to speak; when he opened his eyes and saw his younger brother, he could only clutch at the bed mat with his hands. Shortly thereafter he died. Second Shang angrily lodged a complaint with the magistrate. The bandit leader had fled and could not be captured. The hundred or so who had taken grain were all poor villagers, and the prefect could do nothing about it. The elder Shang left behind a young son, only five years old. Since the family was now poor, the child often went to his uncle's place on his own and would not return for several days; when sent back, he would cry without stopping. Second Shang's wife did not look upon him favorably. Second Shang said: "His father was unrighteous, but what crime does his son bear?" So he bought a few steamed cakes and personally took him back. After several days, he again avoided his wife and secretly carried a dou of grain to his sister-in-law, so she could raise the child. He did this regularly. After several more years, the elder Shang's widow sold his fields and house; the proceeds were enough to support herself, so Second Shang no longer went there. Later, another great famine year came, and corpses littered the roads; Second Shang's household had grown larger and could not look after others. The nephew was now fifteen, weak and unable to work, so he was made to carry a basket and follow his cousin to sell flatcakes. One night, Second Shang dreamed that his elder brother came to him, his expression sad and pained, saying: "I was deluded by my wife's words and lost the bond of brotherhood. You, younger brother, did not dwell on old grievances and have made me all the more ashamed. The old house I sold is still vacant; you should rent it and live there. Under the overgrown weeds behind the house, a hoard of gold is buried; dig it up, and you may become moderately well-off. Let that ugly child go with you; as for that long-tongued wife, I harbor great resentment against her—do not concern yourself with her." When he woke, he found it strange. He offered a generous price to the current owner and finally obtained the house; indeed, he dug up five hundred taels of gold. From then on, he abandoned his lowly trade and had his son and nephew set up a shop in the marketplace. The nephew was quite intelligent, accurate in his accounts; and he was honest and sincere—every transaction, down to the smallest fraction, he reported. Second Shang grew even fonder of him. One day, the nephew tearfully asked for grain for his mother. Second Shang's wife was unwilling to give it; but Second Shang, mindful of his filial piety, gave him a monthly allowance. After several years, the family grew richer. When the elder Shang's wife died of illness, Second Shang was also old, so he divided the family property and gave half to his nephew. The Strange Historian comments: "I have heard that the elder Shang was scrupulous in taking and giving, and was also a man of incorruptible self-regard. Yet he heeded his wife's words, foolishly uttering not a single syllable of his own, and abandoned his own flesh and blood; in the end he died of miserliness. Alas! What wonder is there in that! Second Shang began in poverty and ended as a man of independent means. What was his strong point? Simply that he did not overly obey his wife's commands. Alas! One difference in conduct, and thus the character of the man is utterly changed." The Scholar of Yishui A certain scholar of Yishui was studying in the mountains. One night, two beauties entered, smiling but saying nothing; each brushed the couch with her long sleeves, then sat down together, their clothes making no sound. After a short while, one beauty rose and spread a white silk kerchief on the table; on it were several lines of cursive script, but he did not examine what they said. The other beauty placed a ingot of white silver, about three or four taels in weight; the scholar picked it up and tucked it into his sleeve. The beauty then took back the kerchief, took his hand, and went out laughing, saying: "Insufferably vulgar!" The scholar felt for the silver, but it was gone. When a fair beauty sits before you and offers her favors, and you ignore her and take only the silver—that is the manner of a beggar; how could it be tolerated? That little fox spirit is quite a clever one; her elegant bearing is easy to imagine. A friend told me this story, and I also recall some other unbearable matters, which I note down here: Dealing with coarse and vulgar guests. Townsfolk speaking in literary phrases. Putting on airs of wealth and rank. A scholar posing as a man of refinement. Flattering expressions from onlookers. Tireless lying and bragging. Endless yielding and deferring over seats. Forcing bad poetry and essays on others. A miser crying poverty. A drunkard pestering people. Affecting Manchu tones. Body odor that forces others to hold their breath. Low and coarse jokes from the marketplace. Letting a spoiled brat grab at dishes and fruits at a feast. Putting on airs with borrowed authority. A fake degree-holder discoursing on poetry and prose. Frequently mentioning noble relatives in the middle of conversation. Mei Nü Feng Yunting was a native of Taihang. Once, on a visit to the prefectural city, he lay down for a nap in his lodgings during the day. At that time, he was young and had recently lost his wife; in the lonely silence, his thoughts were much occupied with her. As he stared fixedly, he saw a woman’s shadow on the wall, faintly like a painted figure. He thought it must be a product of his own imagination. But after a long while it did not move, nor did it vanish, and he found it strange. He rose and looked—it became even more real; drawing closer, it was clearly a young maiden, her brows knitted in sorrow, her tongue protruding, and a noose encircling her fair neck. Before he could finish his startled gaze, she slowly began to descend. He knew she was a ghost who had hanged herself, yet since it was broad daylight, he took courage and was not greatly afraid. He said, “If you, mistress, have some extraordinary grievance, I, a young student, can exert my utmost strength for you.” The shadow then descended and said, “We are but chance-met as floating duckweed—how dare I abruptly burden you, sir, with a grave matter? But my withered corpse beneath the earth cannot draw back its tongue, nor can the noose be removed. I beg you to have the roof beam cut down and burned—such favor would be as lofty as a mountain.” He agreed, and she vanished. He called the landlord and asked what he knew. The landlord said, “This was the former residence of the Mei family ten years ago. One night, a thief broke in and was caught by Mei, who delivered him to the Assistant Magistrate. The Assistant Magistrate accepted three hundred coins from the thief and falsely accused Mei’s daughter of having illicit relations with him, intending to have her arrested and examined. The girl, hearing of this, hanged herself. Later, Mei and his wife died one after another, and the house passed to me. Guests often see strange things, but there is no means to quell them.” Feng told the landlord what the ghost had said. The landlord calculated that tearing down the building and replacing the beams would cost no small sum, so he was reluctant; Feng then joined efforts to help with the work. After it was done, he again took up residence there. The Mei girl came at night. After expressing her thanks, she was full of joy and radiant with charm. Feng loved her and wished to be intimate with her. She blushed with shame and said, “My yin and baleful aura would not only be of no benefit to you; moreover, to do such a thing would mean that the defilement of my former life could not be washed clean even by the Western River. The time for our union will come—today is not yet.” He asked, “When?” She only smiled and did not speak. Feng asked, “Will you drink?” She answered, “I do not drink.” Feng said, “Facing a fair one, and merely gazing in silence—what pleasure is there in that?” She said, “In my lifetime, the only game I knew was da-ma. But with just the two of us it is dull, and in the deep night we have no board. Since the long night is hard to while away, let me play the ‘crossed-threads game’ with you.” Feng agreed. They sat knee to knee, pointing fingers, turning and changing for a long time; Feng grew confused and did not know what to follow. She would direct him with words and guide him with her chin, producing ever more intricate patterns, endlessly ingenious. Feng laughed, “This is a peerless art of the inner chambers.” She said, “I realized this myself. With only two threads, one can form patterns, but people simply do not notice.” When the night was far advanced, he grew weary and pressed her to go to bed. She said, “I am a yin being and do not sleep; please rest yourself. I know a little massage art and wish to use all my skill to assist your peaceful dream.” Feng followed her request. She placed her palms together and gently pressed him, from crown to heel, covering every part; wherever her hands passed, his bones seemed to melt. Then she gathered her fingers and tapped finely, as if touching him with tufts of cotton, making his body feel unspeakably relaxed and comfortable: when she reached his waist, his mouth and eyes grew languid; when she reached his thighs, he sank into deep sleep. When he awoke, the sun was already past noon; he felt his joints light and harmonious, quite unlike other days. His heart grew even more fond of her, and he went about the house calling for her, but there was no response. At dusk, she finally arrived. Feng said, “Where do you dwell, that I called everywhere for you?” She said, “A ghost has no fixed abode—essentially it is beneath the earth.” He asked, “Is there space underground where you can lodge?” She said, “A ghost does not see the earth, just as a fish does not see water.” Feng took her wrist and said, “If I could make you live again, I would spend all my fortune to obtain you.” She laughed, “No need to spend your fortune.” They played until midnight, when Feng pressed her urgently. She said, “Do not cling to me. There is a Zhejiang courtesan named Aiqing who has recently taken lodgings to the north, and she is very charming. Tomorrow evening I shall bring her along to serve in my place—what do you think?” Feng agreed. The next evening, she indeed came with a young woman, about thirty years old, with roving eyebrows and eyes that held a hint of wantonness. The three sat together familiarly and played da-ma. When the game ended, the girl rose and said, “This fine gathering is at its height—I shall take my leave.” Feng tried to detain her, but she had already floated away. The two then mounted the bed and enjoyed great delight. When he asked about her family background, she gave vague answers and did not fully explain. She only said, “If you, sir, love me, you should tap the northern wall with your finger and softly call ‘Gourd lad’—and I will come. If you call three times and there is no answer, that means I am not at leisure; do not call again.” At daybreak, she entered a crack in the northern wall and disappeared. The next day, the girl came. Feng asked about Aiqing. The girl said, "She was summoned by Young Master Gao to serve wine, hence she could not come." Then they trimmed the candle and talked together. The girl often wanted to say something, but as soon as she opened her lips she stopped; when pressed, she ultimately would not speak, only sighing. Feng forced her to play games, and she did not leave until the fourth watch. From then on, the two girls came frequently, and their laughter often resounded through the night until dawn, so that the whole town heard it. An Assistant Magistrate, also from a prominent family in Zhejiang, had dismissed his first wife for having illicit relations with a servant. He then married a Miss Gu, whom he loved deeply; but after a month she died young, and he mourned her greatly. Hearing that Feng had a spirit-girl, he wished to ask about his fate in the netherworld, so he rode to Feng's place. Feng at first would not consent, but the man persisted. Feng set out a feast and sat with him, promising to summon a ghostly courtesan. When dusk came, he knocked on the wall and called out; before the third call had ended, Aiqing entered. Lifting her head and seeing the guest, her face changed and she tried to flee. Feng blocked her with his body. The man looked closely, flew into a rage, hurled a large bowl at her, and she vanished with a puff. Feng was greatly startled, not understanding the reason, and was about to ask. Suddenly an old woman emerged from the dark chamber, shouting angrily: "Greedy, base thief! You have ruined my money tree! Thirty strings of cash I demand in compensation!" She struck the man with her staff, hitting his head. Clutching his head, he wailed: "This is Gu, my wife! She died young, and I was deeply grieved; I never expected that as a ghost she would be unchaste. What has that to do with you, old mother?" The old woman raged: "You were nothing but a worthless rogue from Zhejiang who bought a black horn belt and now your nose bone stands on end! What right and wrong do you dispense as an official? With three hundred cash in your sleeve, you act like a father to all! Gods are angered and men resent; your death is near. Your parents have pleaded in the underworld on your behalf, offering your beloved daughter-in-law to enter the brothel to repay your greedy debts—did you not know?" Having said this, she struck again, and the man writhed and moaned. While Feng was astonished and could not rescue him, suddenly Mei Nü came out from the room, her eyes wide, tongue out, her countenance changed, and she approached to stab his ear with a long hairpin. Feng was terrified and shielded the guest with his body. The girl was still furious, and Feng urged: "Even if he is guilty, if he dies here, the blame falls on me. Please keep a little of the caution of not harming the mouse for fear of breaking the vase." The girl then pulled the old woman, saying, "Spare his remaining breath for now, for the sake of looking after Feng." The man scurried away in panic like a rat. Upon reaching his office, he suffered a headache and died at midnight. The next night, the girl came out laughing: "How refreshing! The foul air is gone!" Feng asked, "What enmity do you bear him?" She said, "I told you before: he took bribes and falsely accused me of adultery, and I have nursed this hatred for a long time. I often wanted to trouble you to right the wrong, but I was ashamed that I had done nothing to deserve your kindness, so I would stop whenever I was about to speak. Just now I heard the commotion and secretly listened—unexpectedly it was my enemy." Feng said in surprise, "So this is the one who slandered you?" She replied, "He has been Assistant Magistrate here for eighteen years; I have been wrongfully dead for sixteen summers and winters." He asked, "Who is the old woman?" She said, "The old madam." He then asked about Aiqing, and she said, "She is ill in bed." Then she smiled and said, "I once said that our reunion had a set time; now it is truly not far off. You once wished to spend your whole fortune to redeem me—do you still remember?" Feng said, "That is still my intention today." She said, "I will tell you the truth: on the day I died, I was already reborn into the family of Xiaolian Zhan in Yan'an. But because my great grievance was not yet redressed, I lingered here. Please make a ghost bag from new silk, so that I may attach myself to you and go with you. Then go to the Zhan household and propose marriage—it will surely be accepted." Feng worried that their social standings were too different and feared he might not succeed. She said, "Just go, do not worry." Feng followed her words. She instructed: "On the way, be careful not to call me; when the night of the wedding comes, hang the bag on the bride's head and cry out urgently: 'Do not forget! Do not forget!'" Feng promised. As soon as he opened the bag, the girl leaped in. He carried it to Yan'an and made inquiries; there was indeed a Xiaolian Zhan, who had a daughter of extremely fine appearance, but she was afflicted with idiocy and often stuck her tongue out of her mouth like a dog panting in the sun. She was sixteen, and no one had asked for her hand. Her parents worried and fell ill. Feng arrived at the gate, presented his visiting card, and gave a full account of his lineage. After he withdrew, he sent a matchmaker. Zhan was pleased and took Feng into his home as a son-in-law. The girl was utterly senseless and did not know proper etiquette; two maids had to drag her into the bridal chamber. After the maids left, she unbuttoned her dress, bared her breasts, and grinned foolishly at Feng. Feng covered the bag and called out. The girl stopped her gaze and looked at him carefully, as if in thought. Feng laughed: "Do you not recognize me, young scholar?" He took up the bag and showed it to her. The girl then understood, quickly covered her chest, and happily laughed with him. The next morning, Feng went in to pay respects to his father-in-law. Zhan consoled him: "My foolish daughter is ignorant; since you have taken her under your care, if you wish, there is no shortage of clever maids in the house, and I would not begrudge giving you one." Feng strenuously argued that she was not foolish. Zhan was doubtful. Not long after, the daughter came, and her bearing was altogether excellent, so he was greatly amazed. The girl only covered her mouth and smiled. Zhan questioned her closely, but she was too ashamed to speak; Feng gave a brief account of the outline. Zhan was overjoyed and loved her more than before. He had his son Dacheng study with his son-in-law and provided generously for them. After more than a year, Dacheng gradually became contemptuous and disdainful, so that the brothers-in-law could not get along; the servants also carped at Feng's shortcomings. Zhan, influenced by these slanders, began to slacken in his courtesy. The girl noticed this and said to Feng, "We cannot stay long in my father's house; those who stay long are all worthless. Now that we have not yet had a major rupture, we should return quickly." Feng agreed and told Zhan. Zhan wanted to keep the daughter, but she would not stay. Her father and brothers were all angry and did not provide a carriage or horses. The girl herself used her dowry to hire a horse and returned. Later Zhan summoned her to visit her parents, but she firmly declined to go. It was only after Feng passed the Xiaolian examination that they resumed formal congratulations. The Historian of the Strange says: "The lower the official, the more greedy—is that the normal way? With three hundred cash he framed a woman for adultery, and the pure light of night was utterly destroyed. He snatched a good spouse and sent her into the brothel, and finally died by violence. Alas! How fearsome!" In the year Jiazi of the Kangxi reign, the Assistant Magistrate of Beiqiu was the most corrupt and treacherous, and the people all resented him. Suddenly his wife was enticed by a cunning fellow and ran away with him. Someone composed a lost-property notice on his behalf: "A certain official, through his own carelessness, has lost one wife. She carries no other belongings but only seven feet of red silk wrapping one silver ingot with raised edges and fine grain, in perfect condition." That was also a small retribution for his wantonness. Guo Xiucai Guo Xiucai A scholar named Guo from eastern Guangdong was returning from a friend's home at dusk when he lost his way in the mountains and blundered into thick undergrowth. After about an hour, he heard laughter and voices from a hilltop and hurried toward them. He saw more than ten people seated on the ground drinking. When they spotted Guo, they all called out: "We were just missing one guest at our table—excellent, excellent!" Guo sat down and, seeing that most of the guests wore scholar's caps, asked them to point him back to the path. One laughed and said, "How pedantic you are! To ignore this bright moon and ask only for the road!" Thereupon he flew a wine cup toward Guo. Guo drank it; the fragrance assailed his nose, and he downed it in one go. Another man took up a flagon and poured for him. Guo was a good drinker by nature, and his throat was parched from rushing, so he raised his cup ten times in succession and finished every one. The company praised him greatly: "What a bold man! Truly our friend!" Guo was uninhibited, fond of jesting, and could imitate bird calls with perfect verisimilitude. Leaving his seat to relieve himself, he secretly made the sound of a swallow. The others grew suspicious and asked, "At midnight, where could this come from?" He then imitated a cuckoo, and their suspicion deepened. Guo resumed his seat, smiling but saying nothing. While they were still discussing it in confusion, Guo turned his head and chirped like a parrot: "Scholar Guo is drunk—send him home!" They listened in alarm, but the sound did not come again. After a moment, he made it once more. Then they realized it was Guo himself and burst out laughing. They all pursed their lips to imitate him, but none could do it. One said, "What a pity that Green Maiden is not here." Another said, "At Mid-Autumn we shall gather here again—Scholar Guo must not fail to come." Guo respectfully agreed. One rose and said, "Our guest has a superlative skill; let us also offer our shoulder-climbing game—what say you?" At once they all clamored and rose together. The first man stood straight and tall; immediately another flew up and stood on his shoulders, also straight and tall. They piled up to four men, too high to climb further; those who followed climbed up by grasping shoulders and treading on arms, as if ascending a ladder. In a moment all ten-odd men were stacked up, and from below they appeared to reach the heavens. While Guo was still staring in astonishment, they toppled over rigidly and fell to the ground, turning into a single straight line of path. Guo stood there terrified for a long while, then followed the path and found his way home. The next day, his stomach ached terribly; he urinated a green liquid like verdigris, which stained whatever it touched, and had no urine odor. It ceased only after three days. He went back to examine the spot and found the bones of food and dishes scattered about, with dense thickets all around and no path at all. When Mid-Autumn came, Guo wanted to keep the appointment, but his friends advised him against it. Had he been bold enough to go once more and meet Green Maiden, surely more wonders would have followed. What a pity that his resolve wavered! The Dead Monk A certain Daoist priest, wandering abroad, stopped at dusk at a wild temple. Finding the monk's quarters locked, he spread his cattail cushion and sat cross-legged in the corridor. In the stillness of night, he heard the sound of a door opening and closing, and soon saw a monk come in, his whole body stained with blood. The monk seemed not to see the Daoist, and the Daoist likewise pretended not to see him. The monk went straight into the main hall, climbed onto the Buddha's seat, embraced the Buddha's head and laughed, then departed after a long while. At dawn, the Daoist looked at the room; the door was still locked as before. Puzzled, he went to the village and told what he had seen. The villagers went to the temple together, forced open the lock and examined it, and found the monk murdered on the floor. The room's mats and boxes had been ransacked, showing that robbers had come. Suspecting that the ghost's laughter had some meaning, they all examined the Buddha's head and saw a faint crack at the back. They pried it open and found more than thirty taels of gold inside. They used it to bury the monk. Yishi Shi said: "The proverb says, 'Wealth is bound to life.' How true it is! A man who hoards and accumulates, only to leave it to someone he does not even know—that is foolish enough; but this monk did not even know who that someone would be, and yet he hoarded it for him! Unwilling to enjoy it while alive, he still turned back to smile at it after death—how lamentable is the miser! The Buddha said, 'Not one coin can you take with you; only karma follows you.' Surely this applies to that monk!" Aying Gan Yu, styled Bilin, was from Luling. His parents died early, leaving behind a younger brother, Gan Jue, styled Shuangbi, who was then only five years old. Yu raised him with brotherly love, treating him like his own son. As Jue grew, he became handsome and distinguished, intelligent and skilled in letters. Yu loved him all the more and often said, "My brother is so outstanding—he must not lack a good match." But his selection was overly strict, and no marriage was ever arranged. It happened that Yu was studying in a monk's temple on Mount Kuang. One night, just after lying down, he heard women's voices outside the window. Peeping out, he saw three or four young ladies seated on the ground, with several maids laying out food and wine. All were exceptionally beautiful. One lady said, "Sister Qin, why has Aying not come?" A lower-seated one replied, "She came from Hangu Pass yesterday but was injured on the right arm by a ruffian and cannot join us in our excursion. She is quite aggrieved about it." Another lady said, "I had a terrible dream the night before last; even now my sweat still chills me." The lower-seated one waved her hand and said, "Do not speak of it, do not speak of it! Tonight we sisters are joyously gathered—speaking of it would frighten us and spoil the mood." The first lady laughed and said, "Silly girl, why are you so timid? Would a tiger or wolf carry you away? If you will not speak, then you must sing a song to toast us ladies." The lower-seated one sang softly: "Peach blossoms on the idle steps bloom in their turn; Yesterday's tryst for the spring outing should not be broken. I told my neighbor girls to wait a little and not rush me— Once I have put on my phoenix-head shoes, I will come." When she finished, all present sighed in admiration. In the midst of their talk and laughter, a huge man suddenly entered from outside, with gleaming hawk-like eyes and a hideous, brutish face. The ladies cried out, "The demon is here!" In a flurry they scattered like startled birds. Only the singer, graceful and hesitant, could not get away; she was seized and wept piteously, struggling weakly against him. The giant roared in fury, bit off a finger from her hand, and chewed and ate it. The lady collapsed as if dead. Yu could not bear it any longer. He quickly tucked his sword into his sleeve, drew the bolt and rushed out, slashing at the giant. He struck the thigh; the leg fell off, and the giant fled in pain. Yu carried the lady inside. Her face was ashen and her sleeves and collar were drenched with blood. Examining her hand, he found her right thumb severed. He tore cloth to bandage it. The lady began to moan, saying, "Your lifesaving kindness—how shall I ever repay it?" From the moment Yu had first glimpsed her, he had already been secretly considering her for his younger brother, so he told her his intention. The lady said, "I am a crippled thing and cannot wield a broom or dustpan. You must find another match for your worthy brother." He asked her surname, and she replied, "My family is Qin." Yu then spread out his quilt so she could rest and recover, while he bundled up his bedding and slept elsewhere. At dawn, he looked in on her, but the bed was empty. He supposed she had gone home on her own. Yet when he made inquiries in the nearby villages, there was hardly anyone of that surname, and even after asking among his relatives and friends, there was no definite word. He returned and told his brother, full of regret and dismay. Jue one day happened to wander in the wilds of Tuye, when he encountered a young maiden of twelve or thirteen, of graceful and delicate bearing. She gazed at him with a smile, as if she wished to speak. Thereupon, casting her limpid eyes about in all directions, she asked, "Are you the Second Son of the Gan family?" "I am," he said. She said, "Your honored father once made a marriage pact with me. Why do you now wish to break the former pledge and instead contract another with the Qin family?" Jue said, "I was orphaned young; I have never heard of any such betrothal in former days. Pray tell me your lineage and clan, and when I return I shall ask my elder brother." The girl said, "There is no need for such particulars. Only give me your word, and I shall come of myself." Jue excused himself, saying he had not yet informed his elder brother. The girl laughed and said, "Silly young sir! Are you then so afraid of your elder brother? I am of the Lu family, and dwell in Wang Village on East Mountain. Within three days, I shall await your favorable reply." Thereupon she parted and left. Jue returned and related all to his elder brother and sister-in-law. His brother said, "This is utterly absurd! When our father passed away, I was over twenty. If such a promise had been made, how could I not have heard of it?" And moreover, because she had walked alone in the open fields and spoken with a young man, he thought the more contemptuously of her. He then asked what she looked like; Jue's face and neck turned crimson, and he could not utter a word. His sister-in-law laughed and said, "She must have been a beauty." Yu said, "What does a mere lad know of fair and foul? Even if she were beautiful, she could never match Qin; wait until the Qin match falls through, then there will be time enough to consider it." Jue fell silent and withdrew. After several days, Yu was on the road when he saw a young woman walking ahead, weeping tears. He slackened his rein and eyed her sidelong; in all the world there was hardly her equal. He sent a servant to ask who she was. She answered, "I was formerly betrothed to the Second Son of the Gan family; but because my family was poor and moved far away, all word was cut off. Only lately have I returned, only to hear that the Gan household is fickle in virtue and has abandoned its former pledge. I am going to ask Uncle Gan Biren what he means to do with me." Yu was startled and overjoyed, and said, "Gan Biren—that is I. As for the pact made by my late father, I truly knew nothing of it. My home is not far; pray come back with me at once and we shall devise a plan." He then dismounted, gave her the reins, and walked beside her as escort home. The girl said of herself, "My childhood name is Aying. I have no brothers or sisters, only my older cousin Sister Qin living with me." Only then did he realize that this was the very beauty of whom they had spoken. Yu wished to inform the rest of the family, but the girl firmly stopped him. He secretly rejoiced that his younger brother had gained such a fine wife, yet feared that her forwardness might invite gossip. But as time passed, the girl proved most dignified and proper, and moreover sweet and eloquent. She served her sister-in-law as if she were her mother, and her sister-in-law in turn came to love and admire her deeply. When the Mid-Autumn Festival came, the young couple were feasting together in private when the sister-in-law summoned them. Jue felt reluctant. The girl sent the messenger ahead, saying she would follow shortly; but she sat smiling and chatting, and for a long time showed no sign of moving. Jue, fearing his sister-in-law had waited too long, repeatedly urged her. The girl only smiled, and in the end did not go at all. At dawn, just as she had finished her morning toilette, the sister-in-law came herself to inquire: "When you were together last night, why did you seem so out of sorts?" The girl smiled faintly. Jue sensed something amiss, and his answers were confused and inconsistent. His sister-in-law was greatly alarmed, saying, "If she is not some demon, how could she have the power of bilocation?" Yu too was afraid, and spoke to her through the curtain, saying, "Our house has accumulated virtue for generations and has never had any feud. If you are a demon, pray leave at once, and do not kill my younger brother!" The girl said shamefacedly, "I am not human in truth; it was only because of my father-in-law's old pact that Sister Qin urged me to come. I knew myself unable to bear children, and often wished to take my leave; but I lingered on because my elder brother and sister-in-law treated me so well. Now that I am suspected, let me bid you farewell from this moment." In the twinkling of an eye she turned into a parrot and fluttered gracefully away. Now in former days, when old Master Gan was alive, he had kept a very clever parrot, and would often feed it himself. At that time Jue was four or five years old, and asked, "Why do you keep a bird?" His father jested, "I shall make her your wife." Whenever the parrot lacked food, it would call out to Jue, saying, "If you do not bring the feed, your wife will starve!" And all the family would joke in this manner. Later it broke its chain and flew away. Only then did he realize that the old betrothal referred to none other than this. Yet though Jue knew well it was not human, he could not stop thinking of her; and his sister-in-law's longing was even keener, so that she wept morning and night. Yu regretted it, but could do nothing. Two years later, they betrothed to Jue a daughter of the Jiang family, yet he was never truly content. A cousin of his was serving as judicial commissioner in Guangdong, and Yu went to visit him, remaining long away. Just then bandits rose in rebellion, and in the nearby villages and hamlets more than half were reduced to ruins. Jue was greatly terrified and led his household to take refuge in the mountain valleys. On the mountain, men and women mingled in confusion, and none knew who was who. Suddenly he heard a young woman's soft voice, exactly like Ying's; his sister-in-law urged Jue to go near and confirm it, and it was indeed Ying. Jue was overjoyed beyond measure, and seized her arm, unwilling to let go. The girl then said to those who accompanied her, "Sister, go on ahead; I shall go see my sister-in-law." When she came, the sister-in-law wept with grief at the sight. The girl comforted her again and again. She also said, "This is no haven of peace," and urged them to return home. The others feared the bandits might come, but the girl insisted, "There is no danger." So they all went back together. The girl scooped up some earth and blocked the gate with it, bidding them stay quietly inside and not go out. After sitting and speaking for a while, she turned to leave. The sister-in-law quickly seized her wrist and made two maidservants hold her by both feet; the girl could not help but stay. Yet she did not often go to the private chambers; only after Jue pressed her three or four times did she consent to come once. The sister-in-law often remarked that the new bride could not please her brother-in-law's fancy. The girl thereupon rose early to do Jiang's toilette; after combing her hair, she carefully applied lead powder and yellow paint, and when people looked at her, her beauty was increased severalfold. After three days of this, she had become a veritable beauty. The sister-in-law found it extraordinary, and said, "I have no son of my own. I have wished to buy a concubine for my husband, but have not yet had the leisure. I wonder if the maidservants too might be transformed by such cosmetics?" The girl said, "There is none who cannot be changed, but it is easier with those who have good natural material." Thereupon she examined all the maids one by one; only one, black and ugly, had the look of one who would bear sons. She called her and washed her thoroughly, then applied thick powder mixed with medicinal dusts. After three days of this, her ruddy complexion gradually turned yellow; after four sevens, the unguents had soaked into the very texture of her skin, and she had become quite passable to look at. Each day they only closed the gate and laughed together, giving no thought to the soldiers and fires. One night, shouts arose on all sides, and the whole household did not know what to do. Soon they heard the neighing of horses and the clamor of men outside the gate, all of which gradually faded away. At dawn, they learned that the village had been plundered and burned almost to the ground; the bandits had dispatched parties to search everywhere, and all who had hidden in caves and clefts had been slaughtered or carried off. Thereupon they were all the more grateful to the girl, and regarded her as a divinity. The girl suddenly said to her sister-in-law, "The only reason I came here was because I could not forget your sisterly kindness, and wished to share a little of the trials of these troubled times. My elder brother-in-law will soon be on his way back; if I remain here, as the saying goes, I am neither plum nor peach—a figure of ridicule. I shall go for now, and when I have an opportunity, I shall come to see you from time to time." The sister-in-law asked, "Is my husband safe and well?" She replied, "There is a great calamity near at hand. It does not concern others; Sister Qin has received much favor from me, and I am determined to repay her, so she should be safe." The sister-in-law kept her for the night, but before dawn she had already gone. When Yu returned from eastern Guangdong, he heard of the rebellion and pressed on with double speed. On the way he encountered bandits; he and his servant abandoned their horses, each wound gold coins about his waist, and hid themselves in a thicket of thorns. A qin ji liao (myna) flew down and perched upon the thorns, spreading its wings to cover them. He looked at its foot—one toe was missing—and wondered at it. Soon a band of robbers surrounded the place and searched through the bushes as if looking for them. The two dared not even breathe. When the bandits had dispersed, the bird flew away. After he returned home, each told what he had seen and heard. Only then did they realize that this qin ji liao was the same beauty they had once saved. Later, whenever Yu was away from home and did not return, Ying would always come at dusk; and when she reckoned that Yu was about to come back, she would leave early. If Jue met her at his sister-in-law's quarters and asked her to come, she would promise but not appear. One evening, when Yu had gone elsewhere, Jue was certain Ying would come, so he lay in wait. Before long, Ying indeed arrived; he suddenly rose up, intercepted her, and brought her back to his chamber. The girl said, "The bond of love between you and me is already ended. If we force a union, I fear we shall incur the jealousy of the Creator. Better to keep some affection in reserve and meet from time to time as friends—what do you say?" Jue would not listen, and in the end lay with her. At dawn, he went to his sister-in-law. She was surprised to see him. The girl laughed and said, "I was set upon by robbers on the way, and have kept my sister-in-law anxious." After a few words she hurried out. Before long, a great cat was seen carrying a parrot past the sleeping chamber door. The sister-in-law was horrified, for she strongly suspected it was Ying. At that moment she was washing her hair; she stopped and cried out in alarm. All together they raised a shout and drove the cat off, and so recovered it. Its left wing was stained with blood, and it barely breathed. She held it in her lap and stroked it for a long time, until it gradually revived. It used its beak to preen its wing. After a little while, it flew about the room, crying, "Sister-in-law, farewell! I resent Jue!" It fluttered its wings and flew away, and never came back. Orange Tree Magistrate Liu of Shaanxi was the magistrate of Xinghua. A Daoist came to present a potted tree; looking at it, it was a small tangerine, slender as a finger, and he declined to accept it. Liu had a young daughter, then six or seven years old, and it happened to be her birthday. The Daoist said, "This is not enough for a gentleman's refined enjoyment; I merely offer it to wish the young lady good fortune and long life." So he accepted it. The daughter, as soon as she saw it, was overcome with love and delight, placed it in her inner chamber, and tended it morning and night, fearing only that it might be harmed. When Liu completed his term of office, the tangerine was as large as a full handful. That year it bore fruit for the first time. As he packed his belongings to leave, he considered the tangerine too heavy and cumbersome, and planned to discard it. The daughter clutched the tree and wept prettily. The family tricked her, saying, "We are leaving for a while, and we will come back." The daughter believed them, and only then did her tears stop. She also feared that some strong person might carry it away, so she stood watching the family as they moved it and planted it by the steps, and only then did she depart. When the daughter returned home, she was betrothed to the Zhuang family. Zhuang passed the imperial examination in the year Bingxu, and upon receiving his first official appointment became magistrate of Xinghua. The lady was overjoyed. She secretly thought that after more than ten years the tangerine would no longer exist, but when she arrived, the tangerine had already reached ten spans in girth and bore fruit in the thousands, hanging in clusters. She asked the old servants, and they all said, "After Magistrate Liu left, the tangerine was very lush but bore no fruit; this is its first fruiting." She found it even more remarkable. Zhuang served for three years, and the tree bore abundantly without cease; in the fourth year, it withered and had not a trace of blossom. The lady said, "Your tenure here will not last much longer." In autumn, he was indeed relieved of his post. Yishi Shi said: "Did the tangerine have a previous destiny with the girl? How fortuitous their encounter was! Its bearing fruit seemed like gratitude, its failure to bloom seemed like sorrow at parting. Even things are like this—how much more so for people?" Red Characters On a winter night in the year Yiwu of the Shunzhi reign, red characters appeared in the sky like flames. The inscription read: "Bai Tiao Dai Jing Fou Fu Yi Chao Ye Chi." Niu Chengzhang Niu Chengzhang was a cloth merchant from Jiangxi. He married a wife named Zheng, and they had one son and one daughter. Niu died of illness at the age of thirty-three. The son was named Zhong, then just twelve years old; the daughter was only eight or nine. The mother could not remain chaste; she sold off the family property, put the proceeds into her purse, and remarried, leaving the two orphans behind. They could hardly sustain themselves. There was an elder sister-in-law of Niu's, already in her sixties, poor, widowed, and with nowhere to go, so she came to live with them and look after them. After several years, the old woman died, and the household declined further. But Zhong gradually grew up and thought of continuing his father's trade, yet he bitterly lacked capital. His younger sister had married into the Mao family, and Mao was a wealthy merchant. The daughter begged her husband to lend several tens in silver to give to her brother. The brother followed some men to Jinling, but on the way encountered bandits and lost all his funds and provisions, drifting about and unable to return home. By chance, he entered a pawnshop and saw that the shopkeeper bore an extraordinary resemblance to his father. He went out and secretly investigated; the surname and given name both matched. He was astounded and could not understand the reason. He only lingered nearby day after day to observe his intentions, but the man paid him no attention whatsoever. After three days like this, observing his speech, laughter, movements, and demeanor, he was indeed his father without mistake. Yet he dared not acknowledge him; instead, he spoke to the shop assistants, and on the pretext of being from the same hometown, asked to be taken on as a hired hand. After the contract was drawn up, the master looked at his place of residence and surname, and seemed somewhat moved; he asked where he came from. Zhong tearfully told him his father's name. The master looked disconsolate, as if he had lost something. After a long while, he asked, "Is your mother well?" Zhong dared not say that his father was dead, but replied tactfully, "My father went away on business six years ago and has not returned. My mother remarried and left. Fortunately, my aunt by marriage raised me; otherwise, I would have long been cast into a ditch." The master said mournfully, "I am your father." Then they clasped hands in grief. He then led him in to meet his stepmother. The stepmother, née Ji, was over thirty and had no children. She was delighted with Zhong and set up a feast in the inner chambers. Niu remained melancholy and unhappy throughout, and wished to return to his native place at once. His wife, concerned that the shop would lack someone to manage it, dissuaded him. Niu then took his son to oversee the shop's affairs; after three months of residence, he entrusted all the account books to his son, packed his bags, and set off westward. After they parted, Zhong truthfully told his stepmother that his father was dead. Ji was greatly startled, saying, "He came here as a peddler, and those he had formerly befriended kept him here to run a pawnshop; he married me six years ago. How can you say he is dead?" Zhong then recounted everything in detail. They both puzzled over it, unable to understand the reason. After a day and a night had passed, Niu had already returned, bringing a woman with him, her hair like a tangled mass of reeds. Zhong looked at her and saw that it was his own birth mother. Niu grabbed her by the ear and berated her: "Why did you abandon my children?" The woman cowered in fear and did not dare move a muscle. Niu bit her on the neck with his teeth. The woman cried out to Zhong, "Son, save me! Son, save me!" Zhong could not bear it, and thrust himself between them to shield her. Niu was still furious, but the woman had already vanished. Everyone was greatly alarmed and cried out that it was a ghost. They immediately looked at Niu; his complexion had changed dreadfully, and he dropped his clothes to the ground, turned into black vapor, and soon disappeared as well. The mother and son were terrified and sighed in lament; they gathered his clothes and cap and buried them. Zhong inherited his father's business and became wealthy with ten thousand in silver. Later, he returned home and inquired about it, and learned that his remarried mother had died on that very day, and the entire family had seen Niu Chengzhang appear. Qing'e Huo Huan, styled Kuangjiu, was a man of Jin. His father had been a county lieutenant and died early. He left behind this youngest son, who was extraordinarily intelligent. At eleven, he entered the prefectural school as a child prodigy. But his mother doted on him excessively and forbade him from leaving the house and courtyard. At thirteen, he still could not distinguish his uncles and cousins. In the same village there was a Judicial Reviewer named Wu, who was fond of Daoism and entered the mountains, never returning. He had a daughter, Qing'e, fourteen years old, of exceptional beauty. When young, she had secretly read her father's books and admired the conduct of Immortal Maiden He. After her father retired into seclusion, she resolved not to marry. Her mother could do nothing with her. One day, Huan caught a glimpse of her outside his gate. Though but a child and ignorant, he only felt extreme fondness for her, yet could not express it; he went straight to his mother and told her to send a matchmaker. His mother knew it was impossible and deliberately made difficulties. Huan became dejected and unhappy. His mother, fearing to thwart his wishes, then sent word through mutual acquaintances to the Wu family, and indeed the match did not succeed. Huan paced and pondered, sat and schemed, but could find no plan. Just then a Daoist appeared at his gate, holding in his hand a small chisel, about a foot long. Huan borrowed it for a look and asked, "What is this used for?" The Daoist replied, "This is a tool for digging herbs; though the object is small, it can penetrate even solid stone." Huan was not quite convinced. The Daoist then used it to chop at the stone wall, and at his touch it fell like rotten wood. Huan was greatly astonished and handled it fondly, unable to let it go. The Daoist laughed and said, "If you love it, young master, I give it to you." Huan was overjoyed and offered him money, but he would not accept it and went away. Huan took it home and tried it on bricks and stones—none could obstruct it. At once he thought that by boring through the wall he might see the beauty, not knowing that this was improper. After the night watch, he climbed over the wall and went out, straight to the Wu mansion. He bored through two walls in succession before reaching the inner courtyard. He saw that in a small side chamber a lamp was still lit, and peeping in, he saw Qing'e removing her evening attire. Soon the candle went out, and all was silent. He bored through the wall and entered; the girl was already sound asleep. He softly removed his shoes and quietly climbed onto the bed. But fearing the girl might wake and certainly drive him away with reproaches, he lay hidden beside her embroidered quilt, faintly catching her fragrance, and secretly took comfort in his heart. Yet after all his midnight exertions, he was quite exhausted. He closed his eyes for but a moment and unwittingly fell asleep. The girl awoke and heard the sound of steady breathing. Opening her eyes, she saw light coming in through the hole in the wall. Greatly alarmed, she rose quickly, pulled the bolt in the dark and slipped out softly, rapped at the window to call the women servants, and together they lit a torch and took staves before going in. They saw a young bookish lad with his hair in tufts, sound asleep on her embroidered bed. On closer inspection, they recognized him as young Huo. They shook him awake. He sat up at once, his eyes blazing like shooting stars, showing little fear, but merely hung his head in shame without a word. The crowd accused him of being a thief and threatened to shout at him. Only then did he weep and say, "I am no thief; it is truly because I love your young lady and wished to approach her fragrant presence." The crowd again doubted that a mere boy could bore through several walls. Huan produced the chisel and told them its story. They tried it themselves and were utterly astounded, marvelling that it was a divine gift. They were about to report the matter to the lady of the house. The girl hung her head in thought, seeming not to approve of that. Perceiving her intent, the crowd said, "This boy's reputation and family standing are by no means a disgrace. Better let him go and have him send a matchmaker again. Tomorrow morning, we can tell your lady that it was a thief—what do you think?" The girl did not answer. The crowd then urged Huan to leave. Huan asked for his chisel. They all laughed and said, "Silly child! You still can't forget your weapon?" Huan glanced at the pillow and spotted a phoenix hairpin, which he stealthily slipped into his sleeve. But a maid had already noticed and promptly reported it. The girl said nothing and showed no anger. An old woman patted his neck and said, "Don't say he's a fool—his thoughts are far from simple." Then she pulled him out, still through the hole. After returning, he dared not tell his mother the truth, but only urged her to send a matchmaker again. His mother could not bear to refuse outright, but she commissioned every matchmaker she could and urgently sought another good match for him. Qing'e got wind of this and grew frantic at heart, secretly sending a trusted person to hint at it to the old woman. The old woman was pleased and sent a matchmaker. At that time, a little maid leaked news of the previous affair, and Lady Wu insulted her, so the old woman was extremely angry and resentful. When the matchmaker arrived, it only further provoked her wrath. She struck the ground with her staff and cursed Huan and his mother alike. The matchmaker fled in fear and reported the whole situation. Huan's mother was also angry and said, "What my unworthy son did, I knew nothing of. Why should they heap such rude abuse on us? When they were lying together, why didn't they kill both the wanton boy and the wanton girl at once?" From then on, whenever she met any of their relatives, she would pour out her grievance. When the girl heard of it, she was so ashamed she wanted to die. Lady Wu greatly regretted it, but could not stop her from talking. The girl secretly sent someone to gently plead with Huan's mother, swearing that she would never marry another, in words full of sorrow. The mother was moved and stopped speaking of it; and the negotiations for a match were also dropped. It happened that Lord Ou from central Shaanxi was then magistrate of the district. He saw Huan's essays and thought highly of him, often summoning him to the inner office and treating him with great favour. One day he asked Huan, "Are you married?" He replied, "Not yet." Upon further questioning, he answered, "I had a small betrothal with the daughter of the late Judicial Reviewer Wu; but later, over a slight discord, it was suspended." He asked, "Would you still wish it?" Huan hung his head in shame and said nothing. Lord Ou smiled and said, "I shall arrange it for you." He then entrusted the county lieutenant and the educational officer to carry betrothal gifts to the Wu family. Lady Wu was pleased, and the engagement was settled. The following year, he brought the girl home as his bride. The woman entered the gate, then flung the chisel to the ground, saying, "This is a robber's thing—take it away!" The young man laughed and said, "Do not forget the matchmaker." He treasured it and wore it constantly on his person. The woman was gentle, virtuous, quiet, and sparing of speech; each day she paid her respects to his mother thrice; for the rest, she only closed the door and sat in silence, not much attending to household affairs. If the mother went elsewhere for condolence or celebration, then she would manage everything, leaving nothing out of order. After more than a year, she bore a son named Mengxian. She entrusted him entirely to wet nurses and maids, seeming not overly concerned. Another four or five years passed, when suddenly she said to the young man, "The bond of love and joy has now lasted eight years. Now we are near parting and far from meeting—what is to be done?" The young man asked in alarm, but she was already silent. She dressed in full adornment, bowed to his mother, turned back, and entered the chamber. He pursued and questioned her, but she lay supine on the couch, her breath gone. Mother and son grieved bitterly, purchased fine timber, and buried her. His mother, now aged and failing, would often hold the child and think of his mother, as if her heart and liver were torn; from this she fell ill and grew so weak she could not rise. She could not take food, but craved fish soup—yet none was available nearby, and it could only be procured from a hundred li away. At that time all the grooms and servants had been sent on errands; the young man, being of filial nature, could not wait impatiently. Taking money, he went alone, not stopping day or night. On his return, when he reached the mountains, the sun had already sunk into dusk; his feet were lame and swollen, and he could not walk even a foot. Then an old man came up from behind and asked, "Have your feet not blistered?" The young man assented. The old man then pulled him to sit by the roadside, struck a stone to produce fire, wrapped some medicinal powder in paper, and smoked it over the young man's two feet until done. He then bade him try walking; not only did the pain cease, but his steps became even more vigorous. Overcome with gratitude, he thanked him profusely. The old man asked, "Why are you in such haste?" He answered that his mother was ill, and related the whole story. The old man asked, "Why not take another wife?" He replied, "I have not found a suitable one." The old man pointed to a mountain village in the distance and said, "There is a beautiful woman there. If you would come with me, I shall act as matchmaker for you." The young man declined, saying his mother was ill and awaiting fish, so he had no leisure for that. The old man then clasped his hands, agreeing to meet him another day in the village—he need only ask for Old Wang—and then took his leave. The young man returned, cooked the fish, and presented it to his mother. She ate a little, and within a few days recovered. He then ordered servants and horses to go seek the old man. When he reached the former place, the village was nowhere to be found. He wandered about for some time, and the evening sun gradually sank; the valleys were rugged and tangled, and he could not see far. So he and his servant climbed the hilltops separately to look for settlements; but the mountain paths were rough and steep, making riding impossible, and they trudged upward until dusk veiled the scene in mist. As he paced about gazing in all directions, there was no village in sight. He was about to descend, but the way back was already lost, and his heart burned with anxious fire. As he stumbled about in the wild, he suddenly fell over a sheer cliff. Fortunately, a few feet below there was a narrow ledge of bare earth; he landed lying on it, just wide enough to hold his body, and below it was blackness with no bottom visible. Terrified, he dared not move at all. Luckily, the cliff edge was covered with small trees that pressed against him like a railing. After a while, he noticed beside his foot a small cave mouth; secretly delighted, he pressed his back against the rock and crawled in like a grub. His mind steadied a little, hoping that at dawn he could call for help. Shortly, far within, there appeared a light like a star. He drew nearer, about three or four li, when suddenly he saw a veranda and rooms, with no lamps or candles yet as bright as day. A beautiful woman came out of a chamber; when he looked, it was Qing'e. Seeing him, she exclaimed in surprise, "How could you come here, my husband?" The young man had no time to explain, but seized her sleeve and wept bitterly. The woman comforted him and stopped him. She asked about his mother and child, and he told her all his hardships; the woman too looked grieved. The young man said, "You have been dead over a year—is this the underworld?" The woman said, "No, this is an immortal's abode. I did not die then; what was buried was merely a bamboo staff. Now that you have come, it is because you have a destined immortal affinity." She then led him to pay respects to her father, and there sat a man with a long beard on a dais; the young man advanced and bowed. The woman said, "Huo Lang has come." The old man rose in surprise, took his hand, and briefly inquired about his affairs. He said, "It is very good that my son-in-law has come; you ought to stay here." The young man declined, saying his mother was expecting him, so he could not remain long. The old man said, "I know that too. But a delay of three or four days—what harm would it do?" He then entertained him with wine and delicacies, and ordered maids to set up a couch in the western hall, spread with brocaded mats. After the young man retired, he asked the woman to share the couch with him. She refused, saying, "What place is this, to allow such intimacy?" The young man seized her arm and would not let go. Outside the window, the maids giggled, and the woman grew even more embarrassed. While they were still resisting and contending, the old man entered and scolded, "Vulgar bones defile my grotto! You should leave at once!" The young man had always been proud, and ashamed beyond bearing, he flushed and said, "The affections of a son and daughter—who can avoid them? Why should an elder spy on me? I have no difficulty in leaving, but you must let your daughter follow me." The old man had no retort, so he called the woman to follow, opened a rear door and saw them out; then, tricking the young man past the threshold, father and daughter shut the door and went back. When he turned, he faced sheer cliffs and jagged rocks with no crack at all; alone and desolate, he had nowhere to go. He looked up—the slanting moon hung high, the stars were few. He stood in dismay for a long while, sad and then enraged, facing the rock wall and shouting, but got no response. In a fury, he took the chisel from his waist and began cutting into the stone, advancing as he struck, cursing with every blow. In an instant he had penetrated three or four chi. Faintly he heard a voice say, "Wretch!" The young man struck even harder. Suddenly the bottom of the tunnel opened into two doors, and Qing'e was pushed out, with the words, "Go, go!" The wall closed again. The woman reproached him, saying, "Since you love me as your wife, how could you treat your father-in-law so? What old Daoist gave you that savage tool, to pester and confuse people to death?" The young man, having recovered her, was content and did not argue; he only worried that the road was perilous and difficult to return. The woman broke off two branches, and they each straddled one, which turned into horses; they traveled swiftly and reached home in no time. By then he had been gone seven days. At first, when the young man had been separated from his servant, the servant could not find him and returned to tell his mother. The mother sent men to search all through the valleys, but there was no trace. While she was still anxious and distraught, she heard that her son had returned of his own accord, and joyfully welcomed him. When she raised her head and saw the woman, she was nearly struck dead with astonishment. The young man gave a brief account, and the mother was all the more comforted and pleased. The woman, however, because her appearance and circumstances were so strange, feared they would alarm people, and begged to move away at once. The mother agreed. They had another estate in a different prefecture, so they set a date and moved there; no one knew of it. They lived together for eighteen years, and she bore a daughter, who married a Mr. Li of the same county. Later the mother passed away at a ripe age. The woman said to the young man, "In our marsh field there is a pheasant sitting on eight eggs; that ground may serve for burial. You and your son shall bear the coffin back and inter her there. Your son is already grown, and should stay to guard the grave; you need not return." The young man followed her advice, and after the burial he went back by himself. Over a month later, Mengxian went to visit them, but his parents were both gone. He asked the old servant, who said, "They went to the burial and have not returned." Knowing in his heart that this was strange, he could only sigh deeply. Mengxian's literary reputation was very noisy, yet he was frustrated in the examination halls and at forty still had not passed. Later, as a tribute student, he entered the northern provincial examinations and met a candidate in the same examination cell, about seventeen or eighteen, with brilliant spirit and handsome looks, whom he took a liking to. Looking at his paper, he noted it bore the designation "Shuntian government stipendiary student Huo Zhongxian." He stared in astonishment and then gave his own name. Zhongxian also found it strange and asked for his native place; Mengxian told him everything. Zhongxian was delighted and said, "When I left for the capital, my father instructed me that if in the examination hall I met anyone surnamed Huo from Shanxi, he was of our clan, and I should treat him cordially. Now it is indeed so. But why are our names so alike?" Mengxian then asked about his great-grandfather, grandfather, and the given names of his father and mother, and then cried out in surprise, "They are my parents!" Zhongxian doubted the ages did not match. Mengxian said, "My parents are both immortals—how can one judge their years by appearance?" He then recounted past events, and Zhongxian finally believed. After the examinations, without resting, they ordered a carriage and returned together. No sooner had they reached the gate than the family came to announce that the previous night the old master and mistress had disappeared. The two were greatly alarmed. Zhongxian went in and questioned his wife. His wife said, "Last evening we were still drinking together, and Mother said, 'You young couple are still inexperienced. Tomorrow when your elder brother comes, I shall have no worries.' In the morning when I entered the room, it was utterly empty." When the brothers heard this, they stamped their feet in grief. Zhongxian still wished to pursue and search; but Mengxian thought it useless, so they desisted. In that examination, Zhongxian passed the provincial list. Because the ancestral graves were in Shanxi, he followed his elder brother back. They still hoped their parents might be somewhere in the human world, and searched everywhere they went, but ultimately found no trace. The Historian of the Strange comments: "To bore through a wall and sleep on a couch—his intent was infatuated; to chisel the wall and curse his father-in-law—his conduct was wild. The immortals brought them together only to repay his filial piety with long life. Yet, since they mingled in the human world, had intimate relations and bore children, then to dwell there to the end—why not? But over thirty years he repeatedly abandoned his children—what is the meaning of that? Strange indeed!" Mirror Listening The Zheng brothers of Yidu were both scholars. The elder Zheng gained renown early, and his parents had always favored him, even extending that favor to his wife because of him. The younger Zheng was unsuccessful and not much liked by his parents, so they came to detest his wife, even refusing to treat her with proper courtesy. The contrast between warmth and coldness created considerable ill feeling. The younger brother's wife often said to him, "You are both men—why can you not win honor for your wife and children?" She then refused to share his bed. Thereupon the younger Zheng, moved to indignation, applied himself with diligence and sharpened his thoughts, and in time he too became known. His parents began to treat him somewhat better, but still he was always inferior to his elder brother. His wife longed intensely for him to succeed. That year the great triennial examinations were held, and on New Year's Eve she secretly performed the mirror-listening divination. She heard two people who had just risen from bed jesting with each other, saying, "You too may go and cool off!" She returned home, unable to interpret whether it was auspicious or inauspicious, so she set it aside. After the examinations, both brothers returned home. The summer heat was still intense, and the two wives were in the kitchen cooking meals for the harvesters, suffering greatly from the heat. Suddenly a herald arrived at the gate, announcing elder Zheng's success. The mother entered the kitchen and called to the elder wife, "Your elder son has passed! You may go and cool off." The younger wife was filled with grief and resentment, weeping as she continued cooking. Soon another herald arrived announcing younger Zheng's success. The younger wife threw down her rolling pin and rose with force, exclaiming, "I too will go and cool off!" At that moment, stirred by her feelings, she spoke without thinking; afterward, reflecting on it, she realized this was the fulfillment of the mirror-listening. Yi Shi Shi commented: "When one is poor, one's parents treat one as not their child—there is reason for it! The household is indeed no place for outbursts of indignation; yet the younger Zheng's wife, by rousing her husband, was quite different from those who merely complain and are worthless. Throwing down the rolling pin and rising—truly a scene of eternal delight!" --- Cattle Plague Chen Huafeng was a man of Mengshan. One day, suffering from the oppressive summer heat, he lay sprawled under a wild tree. Suddenly a man came running along, wearing a neck-wrap, and hurried into the tree's shade, where he scooped up a stone to sit on, waving his fan without cease, sweat pouring down like running liquid. Chen rose and smiled, saying, "If you remove that neck-wrap, you can cool down without fanning." The guest replied, "It is easy to take off, but hard to put on again." They then engaged in conversation, and the guest proved quite refined and cultured. Presently he said, "At this moment I have no other wish—if only I could have fine wine chilled in ice, its cold fragrance passing down through the twelve-storied tower, the heat would be half dispelled." Chen laughed and said, "This wish is easily granted; I shall fulfill it for you." So he took his hand and said, "My humble abode is near; please deign to step aside." The guest smiled and followed him. When they arrived home, Chen brought out wine stored in a stone cave; its chill set the teeth on edge. The guest was greatly pleased and drained ten goblets at one go. Dusk was falling when suddenly rain began; so they lit a lamp indoors, and the guest removed his neck-wrap, and they sat together at ease. During their talk, Chen noticed that behind the guest's head a light from the lamp occasionally shone through, which puzzled him. Before long, the guest became drunk and lay down on the couch. Chen moved the lamp and peeped covertly, and saw behind his ear a huge cavity, the size of a cup; several thick membranes separated by lattice-like gaps; outside the lattice hung soft skin as a covering, and within it seemed empty. Terrified, he stealthily drew his hairpin from his topknot, lifted the membrane and peered in—there was a creature, shaped like a small ox, which flew out at his touch and went out through the window. He was even more frightened and dared not probe further. Just as he was about to turn away, the guest awoke. Startled, he said, "You have spied my secret! You have let out the niu huang—what is to be done?" Chen bowed and asked for the reason. The guest said, "Since it has come to this, there is no point in hiding it. To tell you the truth: I am the god of plagues for the six domestic animals. What you just released is the niu huang—I fear that within a hundred li, not a single ox will survive." Chen made his living by raising oxen, and upon hearing this he was greatly terrified and begged for a remedy. The guest said, "I myself shall not escape blame—how could I have any remedy? Only the powder of Kushen is most effective; spread this prescription widely and do not harbor selfish thoughts, that is all." With these words, he thanked Chen and left. He also scooped up some earth and piled it in a niche in the wall, saying, "Using one ge of this each time is also effective." He made a bow and disappeared from sight. Before long, the oxen indeed fell ill, and the plague spread fiercely. Chen wanted to monopolize the profit, so he kept the prescription secret and did not transmit it; he only gave it to his younger brother. His brother tried it and it proved miraculously efficacious. But when Chen himself prepared and fed the medicine to his oxen, it had no effect at all. Of his two hundred hoofs of cattle, nearly all fell dead; only four or five old bulls remained, and they too gradually died. In his distress and regret, he could do nothing. Suddenly he remembered the earth in the niche; thinking it might not work, he nonetheless cast some in at random. After a night, the oxen all recovered. Then he realized that the medicine's failure was the gods' punishment for his selfishness. In later years, the cows multiplied and gradually returned to their former number. --- Jin Gu-fu In Kuaiji there was a shrine to Meigu. The goddess was originally surnamed Ma, of the Dongguan clan. She had been betrothed but her fiancé died early, so she vowed not to remarry, and died at the age of thirty. Her clan built a shrine for her and called her Meigu. In the year Bingshen, a scholar of Shangyu named Jin, on his way to the examinations, passed by this place and entered the shrine, lingering and indulging in idle fancies. That night he dreamed of a maid in blue who came bearing Meigu's command to summon him. He followed her. Entering the shrine, Meigu stood waiting under the eaves, and said with a smile, "I am deeply grateful for your kind regard, and truly feel attachment to you. If you do not despise my humble ugliness, I wish to offer myself as your handmaid." Jin only murmured assent. Meigu escorted him out, saying, "Go for now. When the seat is prepared, I shall come to welcome you." He awoke and felt disgusted. That night, the villagers dreamed that Meigu said, "The Shangyu scholar Jin is now my husband; you should fashion his statue." The next morning, all the villagers' dreams were identical. The clan elders, fearing to defile her chastity, refused to comply. Before long, one household after another fell ill. In great fear, they made a portrait statue of him on the left side. Once it was completed, Jin told his wife and children, "Meigu has come to welcome me." Then he donned his cap and robes and died. His wife, in bitter hatred, went to the shrine, pointed at the female statue and reviled it; then she mounted the dais and slapped its face several times before leaving. Now the Ma family calls him Jin Gu-fu. Yi Shi Shi commented: "To remain unmarried and keep one's vow—one cannot say that was not chaste. Yet after being a ghost for several hundred years, she changed her fidelity—how utterly shameless! Generally speaking, chaste souls and steadfast spirits do not necessarily take up residence in clay idols; when such temples show miraculous powers, astounding and shocking the world, it is usually ghosts and foxes that take possession of them." --- Zitong Magistrate The presented scholar Chang Dazhong, a native of Taiyuan, was in the capital awaiting appointment. The night before, he dreamed that Wenchang sent him a visiting card. When he drew a lot, he obtained the post of Zitong magistrate, which he found strange. Later he returned home due to the death of a parent, and after the mourning period he again awaited a supplementary post, and again dreamed the same as before. He thought to himself, "Could it be that I am to take Zitong again?" And indeed it turned out so. --- Ghost Saliva One day Li lay napping when he saw a woman emerge from the wall. Her hair was tangled like a basket, hanging down to cover her face. She came to the side of his bed, then parted her hair with her hands, revealing a face that was fat, dark, and extremely ugly. Li was terrified and tried to flee. But the woman suddenly climbed onto the bed, forcibly seized his head, and pressed her lips to his, then thrust her saliva into his mouth with her tongue—it was cold as ice, seeping into his throat. He tried not to swallow, but could not breathe; when he swallowed, it was thick and sticky, clogging his throat. With just one breath, his mouth was full again; gasping, he swallowed once more. This went on for a long while until his breath was blocked and he could bear it no longer. He heard someone walking outside the door, and then the woman released her grip and left. From then on his abdomen swelled and he was breathless and full; for several tens of days he could not eat. Someone taught him to take a decoction of ginseng and platycodon to induce vomiting; he vomited up a substance like egg white, and the illness was cured. --- Immortal Island Wang Mian, styled Mianzhai, was a man of Lingshan. He possessed literary talent and repeatedly took first place in the examinations, so his spirit was quite lofty. He was given to sarcastic abuse and often slighted and crushed others. By chance he encountered a Daoist priest, who looked at him and said, "Your physiognomy is extremely noble, but it has been almost entirely deducted by the 'karma of frivolity.' With your intelligence, if you turned about and cultivated the Way, you could still ascend to the register of immortals." Wang scoffed and said, "Blessings and fortunes are truly unknowable, but how could there be immortals in this world?" The priest said, "Why is your view so mean? Without seeking anything else—I myself am an immortal." Wang then laughed all the more at his falsehood. The priest said, "What is so remarkable about me? If you can follow me, several dozen true immortals may be seen at once." He asked, "Where are they?" He replied, "Right nearby." Thereupon he thrust a staff between his legs, then gave one end to the gentleman, ordering him to make the same posture. He bade him close his eyes, breathed out, and said, "Rise!" Wang felt the staff become as thick as a five-dou sack, whirring and flying through the air; he stealthily felt it, and it was covered with scaly ridges like teeth. Terrified, he dared not move again. After some time, the priest breathed out again and said, "Stop!" He then drew out the staff and let him drop into a great mansion—tiered pavilions and extended towers, like the dwelling of an emperor. There was a terrace more than a zhang high, and upon it a hall of eleven bays, vast and splendid beyond compare. The priest led his guest up, and at once ordered young attendants to set out a feast and invite guests. In the hall were arranged scores of banquet tables, their displays dazzling to the eye. The priest changed into splendid robes and waited. Before long, the guests came through the air; what they rode—some dragons, some tigers, some phoenixes—were of many kinds. Each also carried musical instruments. There were women, there were men, and some were barefoot. Among them, one beauty alone rode a multi-colored phoenix, in courtly attire; a serving girl carried her instrument for her—it was over five chi long, neither qin nor se, and its name was unknown. When the wine began to circulate, rare delicacies were intermingled; they tasted sweet and fragrant on the mouth, all beyond ordinary fare. Wang sat in silent stillness, his eyes fixed solely on the beauty; he loved her in his heart, yet also wished to hear her music, secretly fearing she would never play at all. When the wine gave out, an old man spoke first, saying, "By the gracious invitation of True Man Cui, today may be called a grand gathering; we ought to enjoy ourselves to the full. Let those with the same instruments form groups and perform together." Thereupon each paired with his company. The sounds of strings and winds resounded to the Milky Way. Only the phoenix-rider had no partner among the musicians. After the chorus of voices ceased, the serving girl at last opened the embroidered case and laid it horizontally upon the table. The lady then extended her jade-white wrist and plucked it as one plays the zheng—its brightness was several times that of the qin; its strength could split the breast, its softness could unsettle the soul. After she had played for about the time to cook half a meal, the whole hall fell silent, and none so much as coughed. When the piece ended, there came a resonant clang, like the strike of a clear chime. All praised her, saying, "What a peerless skill of Lady Yunhe!" The company all rose to take their leave—cranes cried and dragons roared, scattering at once. The priest set out a precious couch and brocaded coverlet, making provision for Wang's lodging. Wang had been stirred in his heart from his first sight of the beauty; after hearing the music, his longing grew keener. He reflected that with his own talents, he ought to pluck emerald and purple as easily as picking up a mustard seed; after attaining wealth and rank, what could he seek and not obtain? In an instant a hundred thoughts tangled like hemp and artemisia. The priest seemed already aware of this, and said to him, "In a former life you studied with me; later, because your commitment was not firm, you fell into the dusty net. I have not held myself aloof from you, but truly wished to lift you out of foul defilement. I never expected your confusion to be so deep—you are in a dream and cannot be awakened. Now I shall send you on your way. It is not that we may never meet again, but to become a heavenly immortal you must wait for another kalpa." He then pointed to a long stone at the foot of the terrace, bade him close his eyes and sit upon it, and strictly charged him not to look. Then he drove the stone with a whip. The stone flew up, wind roaring in his ears, and he did not know how far he had traveled. Suddenly he thought of the scene below, and wondered what it might look like. Secretly he opened his eyes a tiny slit, and saw the vast ocean stretching endlessly. Greatly frightened, he immediately closed them again, but his body had already fallen with the stone; with a loud crash he plunged in and bobbed like a gull. Fortunately he had often been near the sea and knew a little about swimming. He heard people clapping and saying, "What a fine fall!" Just as he was in dire peril, a young woman helped him aboard a boat and said, "Good luck, good luck! The scholar has got 'wet'!" He looked at her; she was about sixteen or seventeen, with a radiantly beautiful face. Wang shivered with cold after coming out of the water and asked for fire to warm himself. The girl said, "Come with me to my home, and I will make arrangements. If you are satisfied, do not forget me." Wang replied, "What words are those! I am a talented scholar from the Central Plains, who has suffered this mishap by chance. If I get through this, I intend to repay you with my very person—how could I merely not forget?" The girl plied the oar and sped the boat along as swift as wind and rain; soon they neared the shore. From the cabin she brought a handful of lotus flowers she had picked, and led him to go with her. After about half a li they entered a village; they saw a vermilion gate opening to the south, went through several successive doors, and the girl ran in first. After a moment, a man came out, about forty years old, who bowed to Wang and invited him up the steps, ordering attendants to fetch a cap, robe, socks, and shoes, and change Wang's clothes. When this was done, he inquired about Wang's native place and family. Wang said, "I do not deceive you; my literary fame is somewhat known. The Immortal Cui earnestly cherished me and summoned me to ascend to the heavenly court. I myself thought that official honor would be as easy as turning my hand, and therefore I was unwilling to retire into seclusion." The man rose with respect and said, "This place is called Immortal Island, far removed from the human world. My surname is Huan, and my given name is Wenruo. Our family has lived in this secluded spot for generations; what good fortune that I should come near a famous scholar!" Thereupon he earnestly set out wine. Then he said casually, "I have two daughters; the elder is Fangyun, sixteen years old, and so far she has not found a good match. I would like to offer her to wait upon you, sir—what do you think?" Wang supposed she must be the lotus-picker, so he left his seat and gave thanks. Huan ordered that two or three elders of age and virtue be invited from among the neighbors. Then he turned to his attendants and immediately called for the young lady. Before long, an extraordinary fragrance burst forth, and more than ten beauties surrounded Fangyun as she came out, dazzlingly bright and lovely, like a lotus reflecting the morning sun. After she had paid her respects, she took her seat, and the crowd of beauties stood in attendance; among them was the lotus-picker. After several rounds of wine, a young girl with unbound hair came out from within, only about ten years old, but her bearing was delicate and graceful; she smiled and leaned against Fangyun's elbow, her bright eyes darting. Huan said, "Why is this girl not in the inner chamber, but coming out on business?" Then he said to the guest, "This is Lüyun, my youngest daughter. She is quite clever and can remember the classics and ancient texts." He then had her recite poems to the guest. She chanted three "bamboo-branch" poems, in a charming and pleasing voice. He had her sit beside her elder sister in a corner. Huan then said, "Sir Wang, with your heavenly talent, you must have many ready compositions—would you let me hear your teaching?" Wang at once recited one of his recent-style poems with great spirit, looking around proudly. Two lines in it ran: "My body retains only beard and brows; a little drink can dissolve the lumps of care." An old neighbor repeated them several times. Fangyun whispered, "The first line refers to Sun Xingzhe leaving the Fire Cloud Cave, and the second to Zhu Bajie crossing the Mother-Child River." The whole company clapped their hands. Huan asked for another. Wang recited a poem about water birds: "On the marsh the head cries ge-zhe, ..." but suddenly forgot the next line. As he paused to think, Fangyun whispered to her younger sister, and they covered their mouths and laughed. Lüyun told her father, "She has supplied the next line for her brother-in-law: 'And the dog's rear end sounds beng-ba.'" The whole table burst into laughter. Wang looked embarrassed. Huan glanced at Fangyun with an angry glare. Wang recovered a little, and Huan again asked about his literary essays. Wang thought that people outside the world must certainly know nothing of the eight-legged essay, so he showed off his champion piece. The topic was the two sentences "Filial indeed is Min Ziqian," and his opening interpretation said: "The Sage praises the great worthiness of filial piety..." Lüyun said to her father, "The Sage did not address his disciples by their given names; the line 'Filial indeed...' is merely a quotation of what others said." On hearing this, Wang's spirits fell utterly. Huan smiled and said, "What does a child know? Let us not dwell on that—we are only discussing the essay." Wang then recited again. After every few sentences, the sisters would whisper to each other, apparently making critical comments, but their murmurs were inaudible. When Wang reached a fine passage and also recited the examiner's remarks, which included: "Every word is painful and cutting." Lüyun told her father, "My elder sister says: 'The character for "cutting" should be deleted.'" None of the company understood. Huan, fearing her words might be disrespectful, did not dare to investigate. Wang finished reciting and then cited the general comment, which said: "One beat of the Jie drum makes all flowers fall together." Fangyun again covered her mouth and whispered to her sister, and both laughed so hard they could not straighten up. Lüyun again reported: "My sister says: 'The Jie drum should be four beats.'" Again none understood. Lüyun opened her mouth to speak, but Fangyun, suppressing laughter, scolded her: "If you dare speak, you little slave, I'll beat you to death!" Everyone was greatly perplexed and exchanged guesses. Lüyun could not contain herself and said, "Remove the character 'cutting'—then saying 'pain' means 'not pass.' And with four drumbeats, their sound is 'not pass and not pass.'" The whole company roared with laughter. Huan angrily scolded her. He then rose himself, filled a cup, and repeatedly apologized to Wang. Wang had at first boasted of his literary name, looking down on all ages; but now his spirit was dejected, and he was covered in sweat. Huan, flattering and soothing him, said, "I have just thought of a couplet—may I ask the company to match it? 'By the side of Prince Wang, there is not a single point that does not resemble jade.'" Before anyone could think, Lüyun answered promptly: "On the head of Old Man Min, add half an evening and it becomes a turtle." Fangyun burst out laughing, and rubbed her sister's side with her hand several times. Lüyun twisted free and ran off, looking back and saying, "What business is it of yours? You scold him repeatedly and think nothing of it; but when someone else says one thing, is it not allowed?" Huan reproved her, and she went away laughing. The old neighbor took his leave. The maids led the couple into the inner bedchamber, where lamps, candles, screens, and couches were all elegantly arranged. He also saw that in the bridal chamber, the shelves were filled with ivory book-tags and every book was to be found. When he slightly posed questions and difficulties, she responded without end. Wang at this point began to feel that he had been utterly outdone. The lady called "Mingdang," and the lotus-picker responded promptly; from this he learned her name. Having been repeatedly mocked, he feared he would not be respected in the women's quarters; fortunately, though Fangyun's words were sharp, within the bedchamber she was still affectionate with him. Wang, settled and idle, often took to chanting again. The lady said, "I have some good advice—would you be willing to accept it?" He asked, "What advice?" She said, "From now on, stop writing poetry—that is one way to hide your deficiencies." Wang was greatly ashamed and thereupon gave up his brush. After a long time, he gradually became intimate with Mingdang. He told Fangyun, "Mingdang has the merit of saving my life; I beg you to show her a little kindness." Fangyun then consented. Whenever they engaged in bedroom games, he would summon her to join them, and their feelings grew deeper; they often exchanged looks and hand gestures. Fangyun became slightly aware and scolded him repeatedly; Wang only chattered on, forcibly excusing himself. One evening, as they drank together, Wang found it dull and urged that Mingdang be called to join them. Fangyun would not permit it. Wang said, "You have read every book—why do you not recall the passage about 'taking joy alone'?" Fangyun replied, "I said you were unlettered, and now it is proved again. Do you not even know the punctuation? It is: 'If you want to be alone, then you must delight in what others want; as for the joy of leisure, who wants it? The answer is: no.'" They laughed and dropped the matter. Just then Fangyun and her sisters went to keep an appointment with a neighbor girl, and Wang, finding himself alone, eagerly summoned Mingdang and had his fill of amorous dalliance. That night, he felt a slight pain in his lower belly; when it passed, his genitals were entirely swollen. Greatly alarmed, he told Fangyun. She laughed and said, "This must be Mingdang's repayment of your kindness!" Wang dared not conceal it and confessed everything. Fangyun said, "This is a calamity of your own making, and truly there is no remedy for it. Since it neither hurts nor itches, just let it be." After several days it did not heal, and he was melancholy and cheerless. Fangyun understood his feelings but did not inquire; she only gazed at him fixedly, her autumn-bright eyes limpid as the morning stars. Wang said, "You are the one of whom it is said, 'When the heart is upright, the pupils are clear.'" Fangyun laughed and said, "And you are the one of whom it is said, 'When the heart is not upright, the pupils are clear—of nothing.'" For the character "沒" (mei, "not have") was vulgarly pronounced like "眸" (mou, "pupil"), and so she teased him with this play on words. Wang burst out laughing and begged for a remedy. She said, "You would not heed good advice; before this you must have suspected me of jealousy. You did not know that this maid is not to be approached. I had indeed warned you out of affection, but you were like the east wind blowing past a horse's ear, so I spat and had no pity for you. Very well, I will cure you. But the physician must first examine the affected part." She then felt inside his clothing and recited a charm: "'Yellow bird, yellow bird, do not alight upon the thorny bush!'" Wang could not help laughing, and as he laughed, he was healed. After several months, Wang, mindful of his aged father and young son, was often homesick. He told this to the lady. She said, "To return is not difficult, but there will be no day for us to meet again." Wang wept tears streaming down his cheeks and pleaded with her to come back with him. After deliberating for some time, she finally consented. Old Huan Weng prepared a farewell banquet. Lvyun brought in a basket and said, "Elder Sister is going far away; I have nothing to give you. I fear that when you reach Hainan, you will have no dwelling, so I have worked day and night to build a palace for you—do not mind its rough beginnings." Fangyun bowed and received it. Drawing near and examining it closely, she saw that it was a set of pavilions and towers made of fine grass, some as large as a citron fruit, some as small as a tangerine, about twenty-odd in number; each had its beams, rafters, and roof-trees distinctly countable; and within were canopies, curtains, and couches like grains of hemp. Wang regarded them as playthings, but inwardly marveled at the workmanship. Fangyun said, "I will tell you truly: we are all earthbound immortals. Because of a destined affinity from a former life, I have been able to accompany you. I did not originally wish to tread the dusty world, but only because you have an aged father, so I could not bear to go against that. After your father has lived out his natural years, I must return." Wang respectfully agreed. Huan then asked, "By land or by boat?" Wang, fearing the perils of wind and waves, chose land. When they went out, carriages and horses were already waiting at the gate. They took leave and set off, traveling at a swift pace. Soon they reached the seacoast, and Wang worried that there was no road. Fangyun produced a bolt of white silk and cast it southward; it transformed into a long dike, more than a zhang wide. In an instant they sped across, and the dike gradually rolled up behind them. They came to a place where the tide reached, and looking around, they saw only vast emptiness. Fangyun stopped and would not go further. She descended from the carriage, took out the grass structures from the basket, and together with Mingdang and a few others, arranged them according to the proper method; in the twinkling of an eye they became a great mansion. They all entered and unpacked, and it was no different from their dwelling on the island; in the bridal chamber, the tables and couches were just as before. As it was already dusk, they stayed there for the night. At dawn, Fangyun bade Wang go and bring his father to live with them. Wang mounted a horse and hurried to his old home; but when he arrived, the house already belonged to another family. Inquiring of the villagers, he learned that his mother and wife had both passed away, and only his aged father was still alive. His son was a gambler who had squandered all the fields and property, so that grandfather and grandson had no place to stay and had temporarily rented a dwelling in the western village. When Wang first returned, he still had thoughts of official advancement and could not put them out of his mind; but upon hearing these tidings, he was overcome with deep grief. He reflected that even if he could obtain wealth and rank, what difference would it be from empty flowers? He rode to the western village and saw his father in filthy, tattered clothes, pitiable in his decrepitude. When they met, both wept aloud. He asked about his unworthy son, and was told he had gone out gambling and not yet returned. Wang then took his father back with him. Fangyun paid her morning respects, then heated water and invited him to bathe, presented him with fine brocade garments, and gave him a fragrant chamber to sleep in. She also sent for old acquaintances to converse with him and enjoy themselves, treating him with more honor than even a great official household. One day, the son traced his way to the place. Wang repudiated him and would not let him enter; he only gave him twenty gold pieces and sent a message: "Take this to buy a wife and find a livelihood. If you come again, you will be beaten to death on the spot!" The son went away weeping. After Wang returned, he did not much engage in social courtesies; but whenever an old friend chanced to visit, he would always receive them and entertain them, being even more humble and restrained than before. Only one man, Huang Zijie, who had been his schoolmate and was also a scholar of thwarted talents, did Wang keep with him for a long time, often speaking privately with him and bestowing generous gifts. After three or four years, Wang's father died. Wang spent ten thousand in cash to choose a burial site and conducted the funeral with full rites. By this time, the son had already married, and his wife kept a strict hand on him, so that he gambled somewhat less; on this day of the funeral, he came to pay his respects and for the first time met his step-grandmother. Fangyun, at first sight, judged that he could manage a household and gave him three hundred taels of gold for the purchase of fields and property. The next day, Huang and the son went together to pay a visit, but the buildings had entirely vanished, and they knew not where they had gone. The Historian comments: "Where fair ladies are to be found, men would seek them even in hell—how much more when they offer infinite delights? If earthbound immortals were permitted to take beautiful concubines, I fear the imperial palace of heaven would be left empty. That frivolity diminishes one's allotted rank is only proper in principle; how could even immortals not be wary of it? And yet those women's tongues—how cruel they can be!" Yanluo Hong (The Death of King Yan) The father of a certain governor had previously been governor-general of the southern provinces, and had been dead for many years. One night the governor dreamed that his father came to him, his countenance pale and terrified, and said, "I have not many misdeeds in my life, but only that I once improperly transferred a garrison of troops when it should not have been transferred; they encountered pirates on the road and the entire force was annihilated. Now they have brought suit against me before King Yan, and the tortures and punishments are most cruel, truly fearsome. This King Yan is no other than the Assistant Magistrate Wei who will arrive tomorrow with a grain convoy. You must plead with him on my behalf—do not forget!" He woke and found it strange, not putting much stock in it. After sleeping again, he dreamed his father reproached him, saying, "Your father suffers this calamity, and you still do not engrave it in your heart—do you take it for an idle dream?" The governor was greatly startled. The next day, he carefully examined the records and indeed found an Assistant Magistrate Wei, who had just arrived with the transport. He immediately summoned him, made him sit on a chair with two attendants holding him down, then rose and bowed, as in a court audience. After the bow, he knelt long and tearfully told him the story. Wei would not accept the charge, but the governor prostrated himself and would not rise. Wei then said, "Very well, it may be so. But the laws of the underworld are not like the benighted laws of the living, where one can manipulate things; I fear I may be powerless." The governor pleaded even more earnestly. Wei, unable to refuse, consented. The governor also begged that the case be handled swiftly. Wei thought for a while but could find no quiet place. The governor offered to have a guest house cleaned out for him, and Wei agreed. The governor then rose. He further begged to be allowed to go and secretly watch; Wei forbade it. But after repeated entreaties, Wei cautioned him, saying, "If you go, do not make a sound. And although the underworld punishments are severe, they are different from those of the living world; for the moment they will put him as if dead, but in fact he is not dead. If you see anything, do not be alarmed." That night, the governor hid himself beside the guest house. He saw below the steps a multitude of prisoners, with severed heads and broken arms, countless in number. In the courtyard were set cauldrons of burning coals and oil, with several persons feeding the fires beneath. Soon he saw Wei, wearing cap and sash, come out and ascend the dais; his bearing was awe-inspiring, wholly unlike before. All the ghosts prostrated themselves at once, crying out their grievances in unison. Wei said, "Your lives were lost to bandits—the grievance has its proper culprit; why do you recklessly accuse a superior officer?" The ghosts clamored, "He should not have issued the transfer order, yet we were sent here by his wrongful dispatch and so met with disaster—who else caused our grievance?" Wei then tried to extenuate on his behalf, but the ghosts howled with indignation, their voices tumultuous. Wei then summoned the demon attendants: "Take this official to the oil cauldron and give him a brief dip—that is reasonable." It seemed he intended by this to vent the crowd's anger. Thereupon an ox-headed demon seized the governor's father and thrust him with a sharp fork into the oil cauldron. The governor, seeing this, was stricken with anguish, unable to bear it, and unconsciously let out a cry—at which the court fell silent, and all forms vanished. The governor sighed in dismay and returned. At dawn, he looked for Wei, but found that he had already died in the guest house. This was told by Zhang Yuding of Songjiang. Because it is not a pleasant name, the person's name is withheld. Daoist Dian (The Mad Daoist) [End of Part 17] Dian Dao Ren, whose name is unknown, lodged at Mengshan Temple. He would sing and weep inconstantly; people could not fathom him. Some saw him boiling stones for food. It happened that on the Double Yang Festival, a wealthy man of the county brought wine and ascended the mountain, going with carriage and canopy. After the feast, he passed by the temple. Just as he reached the gate, the Daoist, barefoot and wearing a tattered monk's robe, came out holding up a yellow canopy himself, making the sounds of an imperial escort clearing the way, his intention seeming to be mockery. The wealthy man then felt ashamed and angry, and waved his servants to chase and curse him. The Daoist laughed and retreated. The pursuers in haste discarded the canopy; they tore it to pieces together, and each piece turned into hawks and falcons, scattering and flying in flocks. The crowd was just beginning to be frightened, and the canopy handle turned into a giant python, with red scales dazzling the eyes. The crowd clamored and wanted to flee, but a fellow traveler stopped them, saying: "This is merely a blinding illusion; how could it devour people?" He then took a blade and went straight forward. The python opened its maw and angrily met him, swallowed the guest and gulped him down. The crowd was terrified, and, supporting the wealthy man, hurriedly fled, resting three li away. They sent several men to go hesitantly to investigate. Gradually entering the temple, they found that neither the man nor the python was there. Just as they were about to return to report, they heard breathing inside an old locust tree, as hurried as a donkey's, and were extremely terrified. At first they did not dare approach; they stealthily moved closer and saw that the tree was rotten and hollow inside, with an opening as large as a plate. They tried to climb up and peer in, and saw the man who had fought the python standing upside down inside, but the hole was only large enough to admit two hands, and there was no way to get him out. In haste they split the tree with knives; by the time the tree was opened, the man was already dead. After a while, he slightly revived, and was carried back. The Daoist's whereabouts were unknown. The Historian of the Strange says: "Parading with canopies when touring mountains, their vulgar aura permeates to the marrow. The immortals' playful samadhi—how laughable it is! In my native place, there was a student named Yin Wenping, who was the brother-in-law of Minister Bi. He was a cynic and frivolous in his conduct. In Zhangqiu there was a certain Mr. Zhou, who rose from humble poverty, and whenever he went out, he always traveled in a sedan chair on men's shoulders. He also had a distant connection by marriage with Minister Bi. When the Minister's mother had her birthday, Yin expected that he would surely come, so he waited for him on the road in advance, wearing pigskin boots and official robes, holding a visiting card. Waiting for Zhou's sedan chair to arrive, he bowed at the left side of the road and announced loudly: 'The Zichuan candidate, receiving the Zhangqiu candidate!' Zhou, ashamed, descended from the sedan chair; they exchanged a few brief words and parted. Shortly after, they gathered together in the Minister's hall, where the seats were full of officials and gentlemen. Looking at his attire, everyone secretly laughed; Yin looked around with pride and remained calm. When the feast ended and they went out the door, each summoned his sedan chair and horses. Yin also called out loudly: 'Where is Master Yin's Solo Dragon Chariot?' Two robust servants placed a carrying pole horizontally in front of him; he sprang up and straddled it. Giving a formal salutation of thanks, he galloped away swiftly. Yin was also of the class of immortals." Hu Si Niang Cheng Xiaosi was a native of Jiannan. From youth he was clever and could write well. His parents both died early, and his family was extremely poor, without means of clothing or food. He sought employment as a scribe for Hu Yintai. Mr. Hu tested his writing and was greatly pleased, saying: "This one will not be poor for long; he can be my son-in-law." Yintai had three sons and four daughters, all betrothed in infancy to great families; only the youngest daughter, Fourth Lady, was born of a concubine, her mother having died early, and at the age of fifteen she was not yet betrothed, so he married her to Cheng. Some ridiculed this, thinking it a senile and confused command, but he paid no heed. He set up a lodging for the student and supplied him generously. The young gentlemen disdained to eat with him, and the servants all mocked him. Cheng silently did not dispute, and studied very hard. The crowd from the side grew tired of jeering at him, but Cheng did not stop reading; they also made noise with gongs and bells beside him, so Cheng took his scroll and went to read in the inner chambers. At first, before Fourth Lady was betrothed, there was a spirit medium who knew people's noble and base lots. He looked over them all and had no flattering words; only when Fourth Lady came did he say: "This is truly a noble person!" And after she was married to Cheng, all the sisters called her "Noble One" to mock her; but Fourth Lady was dignified and sparing of words, as if she had not heard. Gradually even the maids and old women followed suit in calling her that. Fourth Lady had a maid named Gui'er, who was quite indignant and said loudly: "How do you know that our young master will not become a noble official?" The second sister heard this and scoffed: "If Master Cheng becomes a noble official, I will have my eyes gouged out!" Gui'er angrily replied: "When that time comes, I fear you will not be willing to part with your eyes!" The second sister's maid Chunxiang said: "If Second Lady breaks her word, I will offer my two eyes instead." Gui'er grew even more incensed, and clapped her hands in oath: "I will make sure both of you go blind!" The second sister, enraged by her insolence, immediately slapped her. Gui'er wailed and clamored. The madam heard of it but neither approved nor disapproved, merely smiling faintly. Gui'er went noisily to complain to Fourth Lady; Fourth Lady was then spinning, and neither angry nor speaking, she spun on as before. It happened that Mr. Hu's birthday arrived, and all the sons-in-law came; birthday gifts filled the courtyard. The eldest sister-in-law mocked Fourth Lady: "What birthday offering does your family have?" The second said: "Two shoulders carrying one mouth!" Fourth Lady was composed and showed not the least shame. People saw that she was like a fool in everything and grew even more familiar with her. Only Mr. Hu's beloved concubine, Lady Li, who was the mother of Third Lady, always treated Fourth Lady with respect and often looked after her. She often said to Third Lady: "Fourth Lady is wise within and simple without; her intelligence is deep and not displayed. All those maids are within her net without knowing it. Moreover, Master Cheng studies hard day and night—how could he remain beneath others for long? Do not follow their example; you should be kind to her, so that you may meet well in the future." Therefore, whenever Third Lady came back to visit, she always made extra efforts to please her. That year, through Mr. Hu's influence, Cheng entered the county school. The next year, when the educational commissioner held the provincial examination, Mr. Hu happened to die, and Cheng, wearing mourning like a son, was unable to take the exam. After he had left the mourning shed, Fourth Lady gave him money and urged him to enter the "leftover talent" register. She charged him: "Formerly you stayed long and were not driven out only because your father-in-law was alive; now it is utterly impossible! If you can succeed, perhaps when you return there will still be a home." At parting, Lady Li and Third Lady gave him generous gifts. Cheng entered the examination hall, concentrated his mind and thought deeply, in order to be sure of success. Before long, the list was posted, and he was actually rejected. His hopes dashed and his spirits depressed, he found it hard to return home; fortunately his funds were somewhat ample, so he took his books and went to the capital. At that time, many of his wife's relatives held posts in the capital; fearing ridicule, he changed his former name, falsely gave his native place, and sought to hide himself in the service of a great man. Li Lantai of Donghai, seeing him, esteemed him and took him into his staff, provided him with lamp-oil, paid for his tributary student status, and made him take the Shuntian provincial examination; he won successive victories and was appointed a Hanlin bachelor. Then he told the truth about his origins. Mr. Li lent him a thousand taels and first sent a steward to Jiannan to build a residence for him. At that time, Hu's eldest son, because of his father's death and depleted means, sold his fertile villa; Cheng accordingly bought it. When it was finished, he then hired carriages and horses to go and bring Fourth Lady. Previously, after Cheng had passed the examination, there was a postal messenger who brought the news, but the whole household disliked hearing it; moreover, when they checked the name, it did not match, so they scolded him away. Just then, the third son was completing his wedding, and relatives and guests were in the hall for the bridal feast; sisters and aunts were all present, but Fourth Lady was not invited by her elder brothers and sisters-in-law. Suddenly a man rode in and presented a letter from Cheng addressed to Fourth Lady. The brothers opened it and looked at each other in dismay. Then the relatives and guests in the feast began to ask to see Fourth Lady. The sisters were anxious, fearing that Fourth Lady, nursing a grudge, would not come. Before long, she came gracefully. Those who offered congratulations, those who pulled her to a seat, those who exchanged greetings—the house was noisy and crowded. Ears listened for Fourth Lady; eyes looked at Fourth Lady; mouths spoke of Fourth Lady. But Fourth Lady was as grave and composed as ever. When they saw that she showed no signs of resentment, they gradually calmed down, and then vied to pour wine for her. In the midst of the banquet and laughter, there was a very urgent crying and howling outside. Everyone asked what it was. Soon they saw Chunxiang rush in, her face smeared with blood. They questioned her, but she could only weep and could not answer. The second sister scolded her, and only then did she say tearfully: "Gui'er demanded my eyes; if I had not escaped, she would have gouged them out!" The second sister was greatly ashamed, and her sweat and powder ran together. Fourth Lady was indifferent; the whole company sat in silence, and each began to take leave. Fourth Lady, in full dress, alone paid her respects to Lady Li and Third Sister, then went out, mounted her carriage, and departed. Only then did everyone learn that the buyer of the villa was Cheng. When Fourth Lady first arrived at the villa, many furnishings were lacking. The madam and the young gentlemen each sent servants and utensils as gifts, but Fourth Lady accepted nothing; only when Lady Li gave her a maid did she accept. Not long after, Cheng took leave to return and visit his ancestral graves; his carriage and retinue were like clouds. He went to his wife's family home, paid respects to Mr. Hu's coffin, and then called on Lady Li. After the young gentlemen had donned their ceremonial robes, Cheng had already mounted his carriage. After Mr. Hu's death, the young gentlemen daily vied for wealth and left the coffin unattended. For several years, the spirit chamber leaked and decayed, and gradually they were about to turn the fine mansion into a burial mound. Cheng saw this with grief, and without consulting the young gentlemen, he set a date for the burial and performed everything with full propriety. On the day of interment, officials and carriages came in succession, and the villagers all praised him. Over more than ten years, Cheng held clear and eminent posts, and whenever fellow villagers were in urgent difficulty, he did his utmost to help. The second son happened to be arrested for a homicide; the imperial inspector who was touring the region was a fellow provincial of Cheng's and was very strict in his discipline. The eldest son asked his father-in-law, Surveillance Commissioner Wang, to write a letter to him, but he received no reply and grew more afraid. He wanted to go and beg his sister, but felt ashamed, so he took a personal letter from Lady Li and went. Arriving at the capital, he dared not approach directly. Watching for Cheng to enter court, he then went to call on him. He hoped that Fourth Lady would remember the bond of siblings and forget the old grudges. The gatekeeper having announced him, an old maid came out and led him into the reception hall, where wine and food were served, rather hastily. After the meal, Fourth Lady came out, her countenance warm and pleasant, and asked: "Elder Brother, your affairs must be very busy—how have you found time to travel ten thousand li to visit me?" The eldest son prostrated himself and tearfully related why he had come. Fourth Lady helped him up and laughed: "Elder Brother, you are a fine man—what great matter is this that you should act so? I am only a woman—when have I ever seen you whimper to anyone?" The eldest son then produced Lady Li's letter. Fourth Lady said: "The wives of all my brothers are heavenly beings; each can ask her own father and brothers, and that will settle it—why have you come all this way?" The eldest son had no reply but looked at her piteously. Fourth Lady changed color and said: "I thought you had come all this distance to visit your younger sister, but instead you come to beg a noble person for a great lawsuit!" She flicked her sleeves and went straight in. The eldest son left in shame and anger. When he returned home and related everything in detail, old and young all cursed her; Lady Li also said she was cruel. After a few days, the second son was released and returned home, and everyone was overjoyed, laughing at Fourth Lady for having only incurred resentment and slander. Presently, Fourth Lady sent a servant to call on Lady Li. When the servant was summoned in, he laid out gold and silk and said: "My lady, in the matter of the second uncle, acted with great urgency and had no time to reply in writing. She sends these trifling gifts in lieu of a letter." Only then did everyone realize that the second son's release was due to Cheng's efforts. Later, Third Lady's family gradually became poor, and Cheng's recompense to them was beyond the usual measure. And because Lady Li had no sons, he welcomed and supported her as if she were his own mother. Monk's Art Huang Sheng, a scion of an old family, was quite talented and had lofty aspirations. Outside the village there was a Buddhist temple where a resident monk, with whom he had long been on intimate terms, lived. Later the monk went on a wandering journey and returned after more than ten years. Seeing Huang, he sighed and said, “I thought you would have risen to prominence long ago, yet you are still in white ramie? I suppose your fortune and fate are indeed meager. Let me bribe the superintendent in the underworld on your behalf. Can you raise ten thousand cash?” Huang replied, “I cannot.” The monk said, “Then try to manage half of it; I will borrow the rest for you. Set three days as the term.” Huang agreed. He exerted himself to pawn and mortgage until he had that amount. On the third day, the monk indeed came with five thousand and gave them to Huang. Huang’s house had an old well for drawing water, deep and never dry, which was said to connect to rivers and seas. The monk ordered him to bundle the money and place it by the well, and warned, “When I reach the temple, you are to push it into the well. After the time it takes to cook half a meal, if one cash floats up, you must bow to it.” Then he left. Huang did not understand what art this was, but on second thought he reckoned that whether it would work was uncertain, and it was a pity to lose ten thousand. So he hid nine thousand and threw only one thousand in. After a short while, a huge bubble rose up, burst with a clang, and immediately a cash emerged, as large as a cartwheel. Huang was greatly startled. After bowing, he took another four thousand and threw them in. They fell down, struck and made a sound, but were blocked by the large cash and could not sink. At dusk, the monk arrived and reproached him, saying, “Why did you not throw in all?” Huang said, “I have thrown in all.” The monk said, “The messenger of the underworld only took one thousand—why do you speak falsely?” Huang told him the truth. The monk sighed and said, “A stingy and petty man will never be of great capacity. This man’s destiny is to end with the Mingjing degree; otherwise, the Jiake degree would have been instantly attained.” Huang was deeply regretful and begged to perform another expiatory rite, but the monk firmly declined and left. Huang looked into the well and saw the cash still floating; he fished it up with a rope, and then the large cash sank. That year, Huang was permitted to become a tribute student on the supplementary list, and in the end it was as the monk had said. The Strange Historian remarks: “Could it be that in the underworld they also open a system of purchase of rank? To gain a degree for ten thousand cash is indeed quite cheap. Yet one thousand for a tribute student is still rather costly. If one fails the Mingjing examination, what is it worth but a single cash?” Lu Shu A certain prominent official often did unrighteous deeds; his wife repeatedly admonished him with the doctrine of retribution, but he paid no heed. Just then there came an occultist who could know a person’s allotted emolument, so he went to visit him. The occultist looked at him intently and said, “You will still eat twenty dan of rice and forty dan of flour, and then your heavenly stipend will end.” He returned and told his wife. Calculating that a man in a whole year eats only two dan of flour, there were still more than twenty years of heavenly stipend left—how could his unrighteousness cut that short? He continued his wilfulness as before. The next year, he suddenly fell ill with the “clearing-the-middle” disease; he ate a great deal but soon became hungry again, eating more than ten meals in a day and night. Before a full year had passed, he died. Liu Sheng Zhou Sheng was a scion of an official family in Shuntian Prefecture. He was on good terms with Liu Sheng. Liu had obtained the teachings of an extraordinary man and was versed in the arts of Yuan and Xu. He once said to Zhou, "You have no share in official rank and fame; but a fortune of ten thousand zhong can still be sought by human effort. However, your esteemed wife has a meager countenance, and I fear she cannot assist you in building your enterprise." Not long after, his wife indeed died. His household fell into desolation, and he could find no solace. Thereupon he went to Liu, intending to consult him about remarriage. He entered the guest quarters and sat for a long time; Liu returned inside and did not come out. He called him again and again; only then did Liu emerge, saying, "I have been seeking a suitable match for you day after day, and only now have I found one. Just now I performed a minor art inside, asking the Old Man of the Moon to tie the red cord." Zhou asked happily about it. Liu replied, "Just now there was a man carrying a bag who went out—did you meet him?" "I met him," said Zhou. "He was ragged as a beggar." "That is your future father-in-law; you should treat him with respect." Zhou said, "Because of our close friendship, I sought your private counsel—why do you mock me so cruelly? Though my station is reduced, I am still of hereditary lineage—how could I stoop to marry the daughter of a market peddler?" Liu said, "Not so. Even a brindled ox may have a fine calf—what harm is there?" Zhou asked, "Have you seen his daughter?" He answered, "No. I have no former acquaintance with him; I learned his name and surname only by inquiry." Zhou laughed and said, "Not yet knowing the ox, how do you know its calf?" Liu said, "I rely on the principles of numerology. The man is fierce and base, yet he should beget a daughter of great fortune. But to force a union with him will surely bring great calamity; allow me to perform rites to avert it." After Zhou returned home, he did not take Liu's words as truth; he sought matches everywhere, but none succeeded. One day, Liu Sheng suddenly arrived and said, "There is a guest; I have already sent a formal invitation on your behalf." Zhou asked, "Who is it?" Liu said, "Do not ask yet; you should quickly prepare the meal." Zhou did not grasp his meaning, but followed the order and made preparations. Soon the guest arrived—it was a certain Fu, a soldier in the camp. Zhou was displeased in his heart but outwardly feigned cordiality; Liu, however, attended to him with great deference. After a while, wine and dishes were laid out, and coarse provisions were brought in. Liu rose and announced to the guest, "This gentleman has long admired you and often entrusted me to make inquiries; only the other evening did I finally arrange a meeting. I heard that you are soon to go on a distant campaign, so I invited you at once—this can be called a hasty host." During the drinking, Fu worried that his horse was ill and could not be ridden. Liu also bowed his head and pondered the matter for him. After the guest left, Liu reproached Zhou, saying, "A thousand pieces of gold could not buy such a friend—why did you treat him so coldly?" He then borrowed a horse to ride home, and under Zhou's name, went to Fu's door and presented the horse as a gift. When Zhou learned of it, he was somewhat displeased, but could do nothing about it. After the New Year, Zhou was about to go to Jiangxi to join the staff of the provincial judge. He went to Liu to consult the oracle. Liu said, "Great auspice!" Zhou laughed and said, "I have no other aim, but if I can gain a little profit, I shall purchase a fine wife, and perhaps prove your former words false—is that possible?" Liu said, "It shall be as you wish." When he reached Jiangxi, a great rebellion of bandits broke out, and for three years he could not return. Later, when order was somewhat restored, he chose a day and set out on the road. Midway he was captured by local bandits. Seven or eight others who suffered the same fate were all robbed of their gold and valuables and released; only Zhou was taken to the bandits' lair. The bandit chieftain questioned him about his family background, then said, "I have a daughter; I wish to offer her to hold the broom and dustpan—you should not refuse." Zhou did not answer. The chieftain flew into a rage and at once ordered him to be beheaded. Zhou was terrified and thought it better to comply for the moment, so that he might later abandon her at leisure. He therefore said, "The reason I hesitated, sir, is that I am weak and lettered and cannot serve in arms—I fear I would only add to my father-in-law's burdens. If you allow the couple to depart together, no favor could be greater." The chieftain said, "I was just worrying that the girl might encumber others—why should I not agree to this?" He led him inside and had his daughter dress and come out to meet him. She was about eighteen or nineteen, and a heavenly beauty. That night they performed the wedding rites, and Zhou was far more satisfied than he had hoped. Upon careful inquiry into her surname and clan, he learned that her father was the very man who had carried the bag that day. He then recounted Liu Sheng's words, and sighed with emotion. After three or four days, the chieftain was about to send them away, when suddenly a great government army descended upon them. The entire household was seized and bound. Three military officers supervised the execution; they had already beheaded Zhou's father-in-law, and the turn came to Zhou. Zhou thought his life was surely lost, when one of the officers examined him closely and said, "Is this not Zhou So-and-so?" It turned out that Fu, the soldier, had been promoted to deputy general by virtue of military merit. He said to his colleagues, "This is a scion of a noble family from my native place—how could he be a bandit?" He had Zhou's bonds untied and asked where he had come from. Zhou prevaricated, "I had just taken a wife from the Jiangxi judge's office and was returning home, when I fell into the bandits' den by mischance. Happily I have been rescued—my gratitude is as great as the sky! But my wife has been scattered; I beg the might of your excellency to grant us even a broken tile preserved whole." Fu ordered the prisoners to be lined up and told Zhou to identify her; he found her. He provided them with wine and food, supplied them with traveling funds, and said, "In former days I received the favor of the unharnessed horse—I never forget it morning or night. But in these troubled times I have not had leisure to observe proper courtesy; allow me to give you two horses and fifty taels of gold to assist your return north." He also sent two riders with official arrow-tokens to escort them. On the road, the lady said to Zhou, "My foolish father would not heed loyal advice, and my mother died because of it. I have long known that this day would come; the reason I lingered on from day to day was that in my youth a physiognomist once made a prediction, and I hoped that someday I might recover my father's bones. There is a great store of gold buried in a certain place; we can dig it up to ransom and rebury my father's remains—the rest we can take home, and it will suffice for livelihood." She told the escort riders to wait on the road; the two went to the old site, where the huts had been burned to ashes. Among the cinders, she took her girdle-knife and dug about a foot deep, and indeed found the gold. They packed it all into their bags and returned. They gave a hundred taels to the riders to have the father's corpse interred; she also led Zhou to bow at her mother's grave, and only then did they continue. When they reached the borders of Zhili, they gave rich gifts to the riders and let them go. Zhou had been long absent; his household thought him dead and had recklessly encroached upon his property—grain, cloth, utensils—nothing remained. When they heard that the master had returned, they were greatly frightened and all fled in a hubbub; only an old woman, a maidservant, and an old male servant remained. Zhou, having escaped death after being given up for lost, did not pursue the matter. When he went to visit Liu, he found that Liu had gone no one knew where. The lady managed the household better than a man; she selected honest and dependable men, gave them capital, and equalized the profits. Whenever the various merchants settled accounts under the eaves, she sat behind a curtain and listened; if a single bead was misplaced on the abacus, she would point out the error. None inside or outside dared to cheat her. After several years, the number of partner merchants exceeded a hundred, and the family's wealth amounted to several hundred thousand in silver. She then sent people to move her parents' bones and gave them a lavish burial. The Historian comments: "If the Old Man of the Moon can be bribed, it is no wonder that matchmakers are no different from brokers. Yet that bandit had such a daughter? 'A mound has no pines or cypresses'—that is the vulgar man's view. Even women and girls may be mistaken in such matters—how much more so when one judges the scholars of the world!" Miscarried Justice Zhu Sheng, a native of Yanggu. In his youth he was frivolous and fond of jokes. Because he had lost his wife, he went to seek a matchmaker. He encountered his neighbor's wife and glanced at her, finding her beautiful. He jested to the matchmaker, "Just now I saw your esteemed neighbor, quite young and pretty; if you seek a phoenix for me, she would do." The matchmaker also jested, "Please kill the man, and I will arrange it for you." Zhu laughed and said, "Agreed." After more than a month, the neighbor went out to collect debts and was killed in the wild. The county magistrate arrested the neighbors and used torture on the body to obtain the truth, but found no clues; only the matchmaker recounted the jesting words, and thus suspected Zhu. He was arrested, but he denied it with a hundred protests. The magistrate further suspected the neighbor's wife of adultery, tortured her, and subjected her to the five punishments; she could not bear it and falsely confessed. Then he interrogated Zhu. Zhu said, "She is delicate and cannot endure torture; what she said is all false. Since she is unjustly condemned to death, and moreover branded with incontinency, even if ghosts and gods were ignorant, how could I bear it in my heart? I will truly confess: wanting to kill her husband and marry his wife—all was my doing; the wife truly knew nothing of it." Asked, "What evidence?" He replied, "The blood-stained clothes can prove it." So they sent people to search his house, but they could not find them. Again he was tortured, and he revived from death twice. Zhu then said, "This is because my mother cannot bear to bring out the evidence to kill me; I will fetch it myself." So he was escorted home and told his mother, "Give me the clothes, and I die; if you do not give them, I also die: either way I die, so better to be quick than slow." His mother wept, went into the room for a while, brought out the clothes, and gave them to him. The magistrate examined them and found the evidence conclusive, and sentenced him to decapitation. After several reviews and retrials, there was no change. After more than a year, the execution date was set. The magistrate was just reviewing the prisoners when suddenly a man rushed straight up to the courtroom, glared at the magistrate and shouted, "So muddled—how are you fit to govern the people!" Dozens of constables tried to seize him. The man shook his arm and they all fell down. The magistrate was terrified and wanted to flee, but the man said loudly, "I am General Zhou before Emperor Guan! If this muddled official moves, I will kill him!" The magistrate trembled and listened in fear. The man said, "The murderer is Gong Biao—what has it to do with Zhu?" Having said this, he fell to the ground, breath as if gone. After a short while he woke up, his face ashen. When they questioned the man, he was indeed Gong Biao. They tortured him, and he confessed fully to the crime. It turned out that Gong had always been unruly; knowing that the neighbor had gone to collect debts and would return, he thought his waist-pouch must be full of money, but after killing him, he found nothing. Hearing that Zhu had been falsely convicted, he secretly congratulated himself. That day he entered the yamen, quite without knowing it himself. The magistrate asked Zhu where the blood-stained clothes came from, and Zhu did not know either. He summoned his mother and interrogated her; it turned out that she had cut her own arm to dye them. Examining her left arm, the knife scar was still fresh. The magistrate was also astonished. Later, because of this, he was impeached and dismissed from office; he was fined and detained, and died in custody. After more than a year, the neighbor's mother wanted to marry off her daughter-in-law; the woman, moved by Zhu's righteousness, married him. The Scribe of the Strange remarks: "Lawsuits and criminal cases are the foremost duty of officials; accumulating hidden virtue or destroying heavenly principles both lie here—one cannot be too careful. Haste and cruelty certainly violate the harmony of nature, but procrastination and inertia also harm people's lives. When one person brings a suit, several farmers miss the season; when one case is completed, ten families are ruined—how can this be considered trivial? I have often said that for an official, not recklessly accepting complaints is already great virtue. Moreover, unless the case is of major importance, there is no need to detain suspects; if there is no doubtful or difficult matter, why hesitate? Even if rustic fools in the villages or hot-tempered folk in the mountains occasionally quarrel over geese and ducks, leading to petty disputes, these merely require a single word from the magistrate to settle them; there is no need to involve all the people, only the two parties, and then apply the cane and rod at once, cutting all entanglements. Is this not what is called a clear-sighted magistrate? But I see today's judges: as soon as a summons is issued, they seem deliberately to forget it. The clerks who take the papers, unless they have received enough bribes, will not let the summons be seen; the torturers, unless their 'moistening fee' is sufficient, will not hang out the hearing sign. Thus, through obscurity and delay, months and years pass, and before the accused can reach the official's court, their skin and bones are already worn out! And those who sit loftily over the people, lying idle on their beds, remain as indifferent as if nothing were happening. How could they know that in the prison as in fire and water, there are countless wronged souls stretching out their necks, gasping for breath, hoping for rescue? As for the cunning and stubborn criminals, they are certainly not to be pitied; but when innocent people are implicated, how can they bear it? Moreover, among the innocent who are dragged in, there are often fewer rogues and more honest folk; and the honest folk suffer even more than the rogues. Why is that? Because rogues are hard to abuse, while honest folk are easy to deceive. The beatings and scoldings from the yamen runners, and the exactions from the underlings, are all inflicted on the honest. Once they enter the yamen, it is like stepping into boiling water or fire. If a case is settled one day earlier, they gain one day of life. What great matter is there, that officials should lie gasping in the hall like dead men, as if afraid that the greedy maw will not be quickly filled, and thus deliberately prolong the time? Though not cruelly violent, yet their guilt is equal to that of torturers. I have often seen that in a single plaint, the essential parties who cannot be dispensed with are no more than three or four; the rest are innocent commoners who are falsely ensnared. Some are implicated because of past grudges over a glance, others are incriminated because they possess something valuable, so the litigant uses all his efforts to prosecute the main case, and with his remaining venom revenges private spites. Adding a name at the end of a document becomes a cancer on the bone; suffering myriad torments in the yamen becomes a pain that cuts to the flesh. They kneel when others kneel, like a flock of crows; they leave when others leave, like monkeys tied together. Yet in the end, the magistrate does not question them, and the clerks do not interrogate them; they are actually of no use at all, only sufficient to ruin families, fill the pockets of corrupt underlings, sell children and pawn wives, and vent the private enmity of petty men. I earnestly hope that officials, whenever a case is brought, will briefly examine and interrogate: those who should be dismissed, dismiss; those who should not, eliminate. It is merely a matter of dipping the brush and moving the wrist, yet it preserves how many families and nurtures how much vitality. If those in power never give a thought to this, why should they need the cangue and the saw to kill people?" Ghost Command Instructor Zhan was a man of free and easy manners, with the style of a celebrated scholar. However, he was a drunkard and did not observe formalities. Every time he returned drunk, he would ride his horse up the hall steps. On the steps there were many ancient cypresses. One day, he galloped in and struck his head against a tree, splitting it; he said to himself, "Zi Lu is angry at my discourtesy and has broken my head!" At midnight he died. There was a certain Yi in the town, a peddler in that countryside, who stayed overnight in an old temple. In the dead of night when it was quiet, he suddenly saw four or five men bringing wine to drink, and Zhan was among them. After several rounds of wine, one of them proposed a character game: "The character 'tian' is not wind-penetrating; the character 'shi' is in the middle; push 'shi' upward, and you get 'gu' — win a cup." Another said, "The character 'hui' is not wind-penetrating; the character 'kou' is in the middle; push 'kou' upward, and you get 'lü' — win a cup." Another said, "The character 'ling' is not wind-penetrating; the character 'ling' is in the middle; push 'ling' upward, and you get 'han' — win a cup." Another said, "The character 'kun' is not wind-penetrating; the character 'mu' is in the middle; push 'mu' upward, and you get 'xing' — win a cup." Finally it came to Zhan, who thought hard but could not get it. The others laughed and said, "Since you cannot give an order, you must receive one." They flew a goblet over. Zhan said, "I have it: the character 'yue' is not wind-penetrating; the character 'yi' is in the middle; ..." The others laughed again, "Push to what?" Zhan drained the cup and said, "Push the 'yi' upward, and you get 'yi kou yi da zhong'!" They all laughed heartily, and soon went out. Yi did not know that Zhan was dead, and secretly wondered if he had resigned and returned home. When he returned and asked about it, he learned that Zhan had been dead for a long time; then he realized that those he had met were ghosts. Empress Zhen Luoyang's Liu Zhongkan was somewhat dull in youth yet immersed in the classics, ever shutting his gate and toiling over books, not mingling with the world. One day, as he was reading, he suddenly perceived a strange fragrance filling the chamber; in a short while, the sound of jade pendants grew quite dense. Startled, he looked about, and there entered a beauty, her hairpins and earrings radiant; her attendants were all in palace garb. Liu prostrated himself in fright on the floor. The beauty raised him and said, "Why were you so haughty before, yet now so humble?" Liu grew even more terrified and replied, "What heavenly immortal is this? I have never had the honour of making your acquaintance. When did I ever previously give offence?" The beauty smiled and said, "We parted but a little while ago—how have you become so muddled! Was it not you who sat bolt upright polishing a brick?" Thereupon she spread a brocade mat, set out jade nectar, drew him to sit facing her, and drank with him, discoursing on matters ancient and modern with extraordinary breadth and depth. Liu was utterly at a loss for a reply. The beauty said, "I merely went to one banquet at the Jasper Pool; yet you have passed through several lifetimes, and your intelligence is wholly spent!" She then ordered an attendant to bring water and present a crystal paste. Liu received it and drank; suddenly he felt his mind and spirit clear and luminous. Soon dusk arrived; all the attendants departed; they put out the candles and loosened their garments, and gave themselves fully to delight. Before dawn, the handmaidens had already assembled again. The beauty rose and made her toilet, her appearance just as before, her coiled hair neatly arranged, with no need to recomb it. Liu clung to her and urgently pressed her for her name and lineage. She answered, "It is no harm to tell you, my lord, but I fear it may only increase your doubts. I am of the Zhen clan; you are the later incarnation of Gōnggàn. In those days, because of me, you suffered punishment—my heart was truly unwilling, and this meeting today is but a small repayment for that steadfast love." He asked, "Where is the Emperor Wen of Wei now?" She said, "Pī is nothing but a wastrel son of a traitorous father. I chanced to spend a few years among the pleasures of the wealthy and honoured with him; once that was past, I gave it no further thought. He, because of Ā Mán, long remained detained in the Yellow Springs; I have not heard of him recently. On the other hand, Prince Chén serves as the Emperor's archivist, and I see him from time to time." Presently a dragon chariot halted in the courtyard; she gave Liu a jade-fat box as a parting gift, mounted the carriage, and clouds bore her away. From this time onward, Liu's literary talent advanced greatly. Yet he pined after that beauty, his thoughts fixed in infatuation; after several months, he gradually grew weak and wasted away. His mother, not knowing the cause, was worried. One old woman in the household suddenly said to Liu, "Does my young master perchance have something on his mind?" Liu told her the hidden truth of his feelings. The old woman said, "If you, young master, will write a letter, I can post it there." Liu exclaimed in delight and surprise, "You possess strange arts, and I have been blind to your true nature all this time. If you can truly accomplish this, I shall never forget it." He then folded a slip of paper into a letter and gave it to the old woman, who went off at once. She returned at midnight and said, "Happily, no mishap occurred. At first, at the gate, the gatekeeper took me for a demon and was about to bind me. I then produced your letter, and he took it in. After a little while, I was summoned in; the lady too sighed with grief and said she could not meet again. She was about to write a reply. I said: 'My young master is feeble and exhausted—a single word cannot cure him.' The lady pondered for a long time, then set down her brush and said: 'Trouble yourself to report first to Master Liu that I shall shortly send a fine wife to him.' As I was leaving, she further charged me: 'What I have just said is a plan for a hundred years; only do not disclose it, and it may endure forever.'" Liu waited joyfully. The next day, sure enough an old dame leading a young lady arrived at his mother's dwelling; her countenance and beauty were unsurpassed in the world. She announced herself, "I am of the Chen clan; this girl is my daughter, named Sixiang, and we beg to be received as a daughter-in-law." His mother loved her; when they discussed the betrothal gifts, she asked for nothing further in payment, but sat and waited for the rites to be completed before departing. Only Liu knew in his heart that this was strange. He asked the girl in private, "What relation are you to the lady?" She replied, "I was formerly a songstress of the Bronze Sparrow Tower." Liu suspected she was a ghost. The girl said, "No. The lady and I are both enrolled in the register of immortals; by chance we were banished to the mortal world for offences. The lady has already returned to her former station; my term of banishment is not yet complete, and the lady pleaded for me at the Heavenly Ministry, temporarily appointing me to serve. My going or staying both depend on her, so I may long attend upon your bed and mat." One day, a blind old woman leading a yellow dog came begging for food at their house, clapping her clappers and singing rustic ditties. The girl went out to look; she had hardly stood firm when the dog broke its leash and bit at her. The girl fled in terror, and her silk robe tore. Liu hurriedly struck the dog with his staff. The dog still raged, biting off a strip of cloth, and in an instant shredded it to pieces like hemp. The blind old woman seized it by the scruff and led it away. Liu entered and saw the girl, her frightened expression not yet settled. He said, "You are an immortal—why should you fear a dog?" The girl said, "You do not know: that dog is the transformation of old Ā Mán, for he is angry that I did not abide by the precept of dividing the incense." Liu wanted to buy the dog and beat it to death. The girl would not permit it, saying, "It is a punishment decreed by the Heavenly Emperor—how can we presume to execute it?" After two years, all who saw her were astonished at her beauty, yet when they inquired into her origins, they were quite perplexed; thus they all suspected she was a demon. His mother questioned Liu, and Liu vaguely hinted at the strangeness. His mother was greatly frightened and warned him to break with her. Liu would not listen. His mother secretly found a sorcerer, who performed his arts in the courtyard. Just as he was marking out the ground for an altar, the girl said sorrowfully, "I had hoped to grow old white-haired with you; now that your old mother suspects me, the bond of affection is severed. To make me leave is also not difficult, but I fear it cannot be accomplished by mere incantations!" She then bound firewood and kindled a flame, casting it down before the steps. In an instant smoke obscured the house, and they lost sight of each other face to face. There came a sound like thunder; when the smoke cleared, the sorcerer was seen dead, blood flowing from his seven orifices. She entered the chamber; the girl had vanished. They called for the old woman to ask her, but she too had gone no one knew where. It was then that Liu told his mother, "That old woman was a fox." The Historian of the Strange remarks: "It began with Yuan and ended with Cao, and thereafter turned attention to Gonggan—an immortal should not act thus. Yet speaking impartially: why should that crafty usurper's son necessarily have a chaste wife? When that dog saw the former songstress, it should have greatly understood the folly of dividing incense and selling shoes—yet it still begrudged her? Alas! The tyrant had no leisure to lament himself, and later men lament him!" Huan Niang Wen Ruchun was of a noble family of Qin. From youth he was passionately fond of the qin, and even when travelling he never for a moment put it aside. On a visit to Jin, he passed by an old temple, tied his horse outside the gate, and stopped to rest. Entering, he saw a monk in a patched robe sitting cross-legged in the corridor, his bamboo staff leaning against the wall, and a qin in a flowered cloth bag. Wen, touched by his fondness, asked, “Are you also skilled in this?” The monk said, “I am not really proficient; I would like to learn from a good player.” Thereupon he took the qin from its bag and handed it to Wen. Looking at it, the grain was excellent; he lightly plucked it, and the sound was exceptionally clear and ringing. Delighted, he played a short piece for him. The monk smiled slightly, as if not quite approving. Wen then exerted his utmost skill. The monk sneered and said, “Not bad, not bad! But it is not enough for me to take you as my teacher.” Wen, thinking his words boastful, in turn asked him to play. The monk took the qin and placed it on his knees; as soon as he plucked the strings, Wen felt a gentle breeze arise of itself; after a little while, hundreds of birds gathered, filling the courtyard trees. Wen was extremely startled, and prostrated himself begging to become his pupil. The monk repeated it three times; Wen listened with rapt attention, and gradually grasped the rhythm. The monk tried him on playing, pointed out and corrected the finer points of the phrasing, and said, “In this mundane world there is now none to match you.” From then on, Wen applied himself with meticulous care, and indeed acquired a peerless skill. Later, on his return journey, when he was still a few tens of li from home, the day was already dusk, and a torrential rain fell, with no place to take shelter. Beside the road there was a small village; he hurried towards it. Without time to choose carefully, he saw a gate and rushed in. Entering the hall, it was utterly silent. Soon a young woman came out, about seventeen or eighteen, with a face like an immortal. She raised her head, saw the guest, and startled, went back inside. Wen at that time was unmarried, and his feelings were deeply stirred. Soon an old woman came out and asked who the guest was; Wen told his name and also asked for lodging. The old woman said, “Lodging is no problem, but there are few beds; if you do not mind bending your body, you can make do with a spread of grass.” Shortly she brought a candle, spread grass on the floor, and was very attentive. Wen asked her surname; she replied, “My surname is Zhao.” He asked again, “And who is that young lady?” She said, “That is Huan Niang, my niece.” Wen said, “I venture, despite my humble condition, to ask for a marriage alliance—what do you think?” The old woman frowned and said, “That I dare not consent to.” Wen pressed for the reason, but she only said it was hard to speak; disappointed, he gave up. When the old woman had left, Wen saw that the grass was rotten and damp, not fit to lie on; so he sat upright and played his qin to pass the long night. When the rain had stopped, he braved the night and went home. In the same district there was a retired minister, Lord Ge, who loved literary men. Wen once happened to call on him and was asked to play the qin. Behind the curtain there seemed to be a lady guest listening stealthily; suddenly the wind moved the curtain and it opened, revealing a girl just at the age of fifteen, of peerless beauty. It turned out that Lord Ge had a daughter, whose childhood name was Liang Gong, skilled in poetry and prose, and famous for her beauty. Wen’s heart was stirred; he returned and told his mother, and sent a matchmaker to propose. But Ge, considering Wen’s family circumstances declining, would not consent. Yet the girl, ever since she heard the qin, had secretly admired him, and always hoped to hear his fine playing again; but Wen, since the marriage negotiations had failed, was disheartened and ceased to visit Ge’s house. One day, in the garden, the girl picked up a folded old letter, on which was written a lyric to the tune “Xiyuchun”: “From resentment comes obsession, from brooding comes longing, day by day the heart is overturned by love. The crab-apple is drunk with spring, the willow grieves for the season—both share the same feelings. How is it that new sorrow and old grief, though cut away, grow again like green grass? Since parting, I am only in the realm of helplessness, passing dawn and dusk. Now my brows are furrowed, my eyes are strained—I thought I had already given up! The fragrant quilt envies my dreams, the jade water-clock startles my soul—how can I sleep well? Not to speak of the long night seeming like a year; I count a year as shorter than a watch: past the third watch is already three years—who then does not grow old?” She read it over several times, and her heart delighted in it. She took it back, brought out fine patterned paper, copied it out in a fair hand, and placed it on her desk; after some time she looked for it but could not find it, and thought it had been blown away by the wind. Just then Ge passed by the inner gate and picked it up; thinking it was Liang Gong’s work, and disliking its wanton words, he burned it, but could not bear to speak of it, and wished to marry her off quickly. The son of the governor Liu of a neighbouring county happened to come to ask for her hand; Ge thought well of him, yet still wished to see the man for himself. The young man arrived in splendid dress, with a handsome appearance. Ge was greatly pleased and entertained him lavishly. After they took leave, the young man left behind a tiny embroidered shoe under his seat. Ge’s heart immediately detested his frivolity, and he called the matchmaker and told her the reason. The young man vehemently protested his innocence; Ge would not listen, and finally broke off the match. Now earlier, Ge had a green chrysanthemum variety which he treasured and did not share; Liang Gong planted it in her chamber. Suddenly one or two of the chrysanthemum plants in Wen’s courtyard turned green; when his friends heard of it, they came to view them, and Wen also cherished them. One morning at dawn he went to look at them, and beside the bed he found a copy of the “Xiyuchun” lyric; he read it over and over, not knowing where it had come from. Because his own name was “Chun” (Spring), he was all the more puzzled, and on his desk he annotated it with red and yellow marks, making lascivious comments. Just then Ge heard of Wen’s green chrysanthemums and, surprised, came in person to his study; seeing the lyric, he took it up and read it. Wen, because his comments were indecent, snatched it away and crumpled it. Ge had only read one or two sentences—it was exactly the one picked up at the inner gate. He was greatly suspicious, and even the green chrysanthemum seeds he guessed were a gift from Liang Gong. He returned and told his wife, and made her press Liang Gong for an explanation. Liang Gong wept as if she would die; but there was no evidence, and nothing could be proven. The wife, fearing that the matter would become more exposed, suggested that it would be better to give the daughter to Wen. Ge agreed and sent word to Wen. Wen was overjoyed. That day he gave a feast in celebration of the green chrysanthemums, burning incense and playing the qin; the fine night ended only at dawn. When he went to bed, the study boy heard the qin sound by itself; at first he thought it was the servants playing tricks; but when he realised it was not human, he told Wen. Wen went himself and found it true. The sound was halting and rough, as if trying to imitate him but not yet able. When he burst in with a torch, it vanished without trace. Wen took the qin away, and then all night it was silent. He therefore thought it was a fox, and knew it wished to become his pupil; so every evening he played one piece, and set the strings as if allowing an unseen player to practise, and every night it secretly listened. After six or seven nights, it could actually produce a tune, quite elegant to the ear. When Wen brought home his bride, they each recounted the previous verses, and only then did they understand how their union had come about, but still did not know the source. Liang Gong heard of the strange self-playing qin and went to listen; she said, “This is not a fox—the melody is mournful and has a ghostly sound.” Wen was not fully convinced. Liang Gong then said that her family had an ancient mirror that could reveal spectres. The next day, she sent for it; when the qin sound began, she took the mirror and suddenly entered; with the light, there was indeed a young woman, cowering in a corner of the room, unable to hide any longer. Examining her closely, it was Zhao’s Huan Niang. They were greatly alarmed and pressed her closely. She said tearfully, “I acted as your go-between—that was not without merit. Why press me so hard?” Wen asked her to put away the mirror, and promised not to flee; she agreed. He then bagged the mirror. The woman sat at a distance and said, “I am the daughter of a prefect, dead now a hundred years. When young I loved the qin and zither; I had already become quite proficient in the zither, but for the qin I never received a true transmission, and even in the underworld I regret it. When you favoured me with your presence, I had the pleasure of hearing your fine playing, and my heart was drawn to you; yet I regret that as a ghost I could not serve you in person, so I secretly arranged a good match for you, to repay your kindness. The embroidered shoe dropped by young master Liu, and the vulgar lyric ‘Xiyuchun’—both were my doing. As one who repaid her teacher, I cannot be said to have been remiss.” The husband and wife both bowed and thanked her. Huan Niang said, “Your art, I have grasped more than half; but I have not yet fully penetrated its spiritual essence. Please play again for me.” Wen did as she asked, and also expounded the method in full. Huan Niang was greatly pleased and said, “I have now fully mastered it!” Then she rose, intending to take leave. Liang Gong had always been good at the zither; hearing of her skill, she wished to hear it. Huan Niang did not decline; the melody and the notation were not of this mundane world. Liang Gong, beating time in admiration, in turn begged to be taught. The woman took up a brush and drew up a score in eighteen sections, then again rose to take leave. The husband and wife pleaded with her earnestly. Huan Niang said sadly, “Your harmonious union is that of true kindred spirits; how could one of ill-starred fate enjoy such fortune? If fate allows, we may meet again in the next life.” Thereupon she gave Wen a scroll and said, “This is my portrait. If you do not forget the matchmaker, hang it in your bedroom; when you are in good spirits, burn a stick of incense, face it and play one piece—then I shall receive it in person.” She went out the door and vanished. A Xiu Liu Zigu of Haizhou, when he was fifteen years old, went to Gai to visit his maternal uncle. There he saw in a miscellaneous goods shop a young woman of peerless beauty, and his heart was drawn to her. He stealthily went to her shop, pretending to buy fans. The young woman then called for her father. When her father came out, Liu’s spirits fell, so he deliberately haggled over the price and left. From a distance he saw her father go elsewhere, and he called on her again. The young woman was about to look for her father. Liu stopped her, saying, “No need—just name the price, I will not begrudge the cost.” The young woman did as he said and deliberately raised the price. Liu could not bear to haggle, so he took out his string of cash and left. The next day he went again, and did the same. After walking a few paces, the young woman called after him, “Come back! Just now I was joking; the price was too high.” And she returned half the money to him. Liu was all the more moved by her sincerity, and he seized every opportunity to go there, so that day by day they grew familiar. The young woman asked, “Where does the young gentleman live?” He told her truthfully. He in turn asked her; she said of herself, “My family name is Yao.” When he was leaving, whatever he bought, the young woman wrapped it up neatly in paper, and then licked it with her tongue to seal it. Liu carried it home and dared not open it again, for fear of disturbing the marks of her tongue. After half a month, his servant spied on him and secretly joined with his uncle to force him to return home. Liu was disconsolate and discontented. He placed the scented handkerchiefs, powders, and such things he had bought into a small box, and when no one was around, he would shut the door and examine them by himself, touching each object and lost in longing. The following year, he went to Gai again. As soon as he had unpacked his luggage, he hurried to the young woman’s place; but when he arrived, the shop was closed, and he returned disappointed. He thought she might have stepped out and not yet returned, so he went again early the next day—but it was still closed as before. Asking the neighbors, he learned that Yao was originally from Guangning, and because trade was not yielding much profit, she had temporarily gone back home; moreover, no one knew when she would come back. His spirits were utterly shattered. After staying a few days, he returned home disconsolate. His mother proposed marriage matches for him, but he repeatedly blocked them. His mother was both puzzled and angry. The servant privately told her about the earlier affair, and his mother became even more watchful over him, and thus the journey to Gai was cut off. Liu grew haggard, losing sleep and appetite. His mother, worried and at a loss, thought it better to follow his wish. So she set a date, prepared his travel things, and sent him to Gai, with a message to his uncle to arrange the match. The uncle thereupon went to the Yao family on his behalf. After some time he returned and said to Liu, “The matter is not settled! Axiu is already betrothed to a man from Guangning.” Liu hung his head in dejection, his heart dead with despair. After returning home, he held the box and wept, yet he wandered about brooding, hoping that there might be someone in the world like her. Just then a matchmaker came, praising highly a Miss Huang of Fuzhou. Liu, fearing it might not be true, ordered his carriage and went to Fuzhou. Entering the west gate, he saw a house facing north, its two doors half open; inside was a young woman, strikingly like Axiu. He looked again—she walked while looking back and then entered—it was truly she without mistake. Liu was greatly stirred, so he rented a house next door to her eastern neighbor, and upon careful inquiry learned that her family name was Li. He pondered again and again: could there truly be such a resemblance in the world? After several days, finding no means of approach, he could only watch her gate intently every day, hoping the young woman might come out again. One day, just as the sun was westering, the young woman indeed came out. As soon as she caught sight of Liu, she turned and walked back, pointing behind her with her hand; then she put her palm to her forehead, and went inside. Liu was overjoyed, but could not make sense of it. After pondering for a while, he walked at random to the back of the house, where he saw a desolate garden stretching wide, with a low wall to the west, about shoulder-high. Suddenly he understood, and crouched down among the dewy grass. After a long time, someone appeared over the wall, showing her head, and whispered, “Have you come?” Liu assented and rose. Looking closely, it was indeed Axiu. He was greatly overcome, and his tears fell like ropes. The young woman, leaning over the wall, wiped his tears with her handkerchief and comforted him warmly. Liu said, “Every plan failed, and I thought my life was over—how could I have expected to have this evening again? But how is it that you are here?” She replied, “The Li family is my paternal cousin’s household.” Liu asked her to climb over the wall. She said, “You go back first, send your attendants to sleep elsewhere, and I will come by myself.” Liu did as she said and sat waiting for her. After a short while, the young woman quietly entered, not very splendidly adorned, her gown and trousers still the same as before. Liu drew her to sit beside him and told her all his hardships. Then he asked, “You are already betrothed—why have you not yet been married?” She said, “It was a lie that I was betrothed. My father, because the distance was too great, was unwilling to consent to marriage with you, and perhaps he used my uncle’s false words to cut off your hopes.” Then they went to bed, and their intimate joys, in all their infinite variety, cannot be described in words. At the fourth watch she rose abruptly, climbed over the wall, and left. From then on, Liu no longer gave any thought to the Huang girl. He stayed on in the inn, forgetting to return, and passed a whole month without going home. One night, the servant rose to feed the horses and saw that the lamp in the room was still lit. Peeping in, he saw A Xiu and was greatly startled. However, he dared not speak to the master. At dawn, he went about the market to inquire, then returned and questioned Liu: "Last night, with whom were you carousing?" Liu at first denied it. The servant said: "This dwelling is desolate, a den of foxes and ghosts. Master, you should take care of yourself. That Miss Yao—why would she come here?" Liu then sheepishly said: "The western neighbor is her cousin uncle—why should you doubt?" The servant replied: "I have inquired thoroughly: to the east there is only a lone old widow, and to the west a family with a young son, with no close relatives. What you encountered must be a demon; otherwise, how could a dress that has been worn for several years not yet be changed? Moreover, her face is too pale, her cheeks somewhat thin, and when she smiles there are no little dimples—she is not as beautiful as A Xiu." Liu pondered again and again, then grew greatly frightened and said: "If so, what is to be done?" The servant planned to wait for her arrival, then take up weapons and rush in to strike her together. At dusk, the woman came and said to Liu: "I know you have suspicions, but I have no ill intent; I merely wish to fulfill our former destiny." Before she finished, the servant burst in through the door. The woman scolded him: "Put down your weapons! Quickly bring wine, for I shall take leave of your master." The servant immediately dropped his weapon as if it had been snatched from him. Liu grew even more terrified and forced himself to lay out wine and food. The woman talked and laughed as usual, then raised her hand toward Liu and said: "I am fully aware of your heart's concerns, and I was about to do my small part to help, yet you actually laid an ambush? Though I am not A Xiu, I rather fancy I am not inferior—do you still see me as before?" Liu's hair stood on end, and he was struck dumb. The woman listened for the third watch, took a sip from her cup, rose and said: "I shall go for now. After the wedding candles, I will come to compare myself with the new bride." She turned and vanished. Liu trusted the fox's words and went straight to Gai. He resented his uncle for deceiving him and did not stay at his house; he lodged near the Yao family and sent a matchmaker to propose, plying with heavy bribes. Yao's wife then said: "The young master has gone to Guangning to find a son-in-law for our daughter. My husband went for that reason; whether it will succeed is unknown. You must wait until his return, then we can discuss it." Hearing this, Liu was at a loss and could not decide, so he only stayed firmly to await their return. After more than ten days, he suddenly heard news of military alarm, but still suspected it was a false rumor. After a long time, the news became more urgent, so he packed his bags and left. On the way he encountered chaos; master and servant were separated, and he was captured by scouts. Because Liu was weak and scholarly, they were lax in guarding him, so he stole a horse and fled. When he reached the border of Haizhou, he saw a woman with disheveled hair and dusty face, her shoes slipping and stumbling, barely able to stand. Liu rode past her. The woman suddenly called out: "Is that not Master Liu on horseback?" Liu reined in and looked carefully—it was A Xiu. He still wondered if she was the fox, and asked: "Are you truly A Xiu?" The woman asked: "Why do you say that?" Liu related what he had encountered. The woman said: "I am truly A Xiu. Father took me back from Guangning when we met soldiers and I was captured. They gave me a horse, but I fell off repeatedly. Suddenly a woman seized my wrist and hurried me away; we fled through the camp in confusion, and no one questioned us. That woman ran as fast as a falcon, but I could barely keep up; after a hundred paces, my shoes kept coming off. After a long while, hearing the shouts and neighs growing distant, she released my hand and said: 'Farewell! The road ahead is smooth; you may go slowly. The one who loves you will soon arrive, and you should return with him.'" Liu knew it was the fox and was moved. He then told her why he had stayed in Gai. She said her uncle had been negotiating a match for her with the Fang family, but before the betrothal gifts were sent, the chaos broke out. Liu then realized that his uncle's words were not false. He took the woman on his horse and they rode back together. When they entered the gate, his old mother was safe and sound, which greatly delighted them. He tied up the horse, entered, and told everything. His mother was also pleased, and bathed and dressed A Xiu; when her toilette was complete, her face shone with radiance. His mother clapped her hands and said: "No wonder my foolish son could not stop dreaming of her!" Then she spread out bedding and had her stay with herself. She also sent someone to Gai with a letter to the Yao family. In a few days, both Yao and his wife arrived; they chose an auspicious day and performed the wedding rites, then left. Liu opened the casket he had stored; the seals were intact. There was a box of powder; when he opened it, it had turned into red earth. Liu was astonished. A Xiu covered her mouth and laughed: "The theft of several years is now finally discovered. That day I saw you let me do the wrapping without even checking the authenticity, so I played this trick on you." While they were laughing, a person lifted the curtain and entered, saying: "So delighted—should you not thank the matchmaker?" Liu looked and saw another A Xiu. He urgently called his mother. Mother and all the household gathered, but no one could distinguish them. Liu turned his eyes and was also confused; after staring for a long while, he finally bowed and thanked her. The woman asked for a mirror, looked at herself, blushed, and swiftly went out; when they sought her, she had vanished. The couple, grateful for her kindness, set up a tablet in the house and made offerings to her. One evening, Liu returned drunk; the room was dark and empty. He was about to light the lamp when A Xiu arrived. Liu drew her to him and asked: "Where have you been?" She laughed and said: "The stench of wine is offensive—how intolerable! Why such cross-examination? Who would be sneaking off for a tryst?" Liu laughingly cupped her cheeks. The woman said: "Does my lord think I or the fox-sister is superior?" Liu said: "You surpass her, but one who judges by appearance cannot distinguish." Then they closed the door and dallied. Soon there was a knock at the door; the woman rose and laughed: "My lord, you too are one who judges by appearance." Liu did not understand. He hurried to open the door, and in came A Xiu, to his great astonishment. Then he realized that the one he had just been speaking with was the fox. In the darkness he again heard laughter. The couple faced the air and prayed, begging her to show herself. The fox said: "I do not wish to see A Xiu." They asked: "Why not take another form?" She said: "I cannot." They asked: "Why cannot?" She said: "A Xiu is my younger sister. In a former life she died young. When alive, she and I followed our mother to the Heavenly Palace and saw the Queen Mother of the West. I secretly admired her, and upon returning I applied myself to imitating her. My younger sister was cleverer than I; in one month she achieved a perfect likeness. I studied for three months before I succeeded, yet in the end I could not match her. Now that we have passed into another life, I thought I had surpassed her, but unexpectedly it is still as before. I am moved by your sincerity, so I have come from time to time; now I am leaving." Then she spoke no more. After that, she would come every three or five days, and all difficult matters were decided by her. When A Xiu went to visit her parents, the fox often stayed for several days without leaving, and the household all feared and avoided her. Whenever something was lost, the fox would dress in her finest clothes, sit upright, wear a tortoiseshell hairpin several inches long, and sternly address the household: "The stolen item must be returned to such-and-such place tonight; otherwise, you will suffer a splitting headache and regret it too late!" At dawn, the item was indeed found at that place. After three years, she stopped coming altogether. Occasionally, gold or silk would go missing, and A Xiu would imitate her attire and threaten the household, and this also proved effective many times. Yang Ba Yan A hunter, lying in wait in the mountains one night, saw a little man about two feet tall walking alone at the bottom of a ravine. After a moment, another man came, also of the same height. They happened to meet and asked each other where they were going. The former said: "I am going to see Yang Ba Yan. I recently saw that his complexion was dark and inauspicious—many misfortunes are upon him." The latter said: "I have come for the same reason; your words are not wrong." The hunter knew they were not human, and shouted at them fiercely; the two men both vanished. That night he caught a fox, on whose left eye there was a scar as large as a coin. Xiao Cui Wang Taichang, a man of Yue. When he was still a boy with his hair in twin tufts, he lay napping on his bed during the day. Suddenly the sky darkened, and a great thunderbolt burst forth violently. A creature larger than a cat came and crouched beneath him, twisting and turning without leaving. After a while the weather cleared, and the creature went straight out. When he looked at it, it was not a cat; he grew frightened and called to his elder brother from the adjoining room. His brother heard him and said joyfully, "You are certain to become greatly honored—this fox came to avoid the thunderbolt tribulation." Later indeed he became a presented scholar in his youth, and from a district magistrate entered the capital as an imperial censor. He begot a son named Yuanfeng, who was utterly stupid; at sixteen he could not distinguish male from female, and thus no one in the village or district would arrange a marriage for him. Wang worried over this. Just then a woman leading a young girl came to the gate and offered herself as a match. When he looked at the girl, she smiled charmingly—truly a fairy being. Delighted, he asked her name and surname. She said of herself, "My family name is Yu. The girl is called Xiaocui, and she is sixteen." They discussed the betrothal gift. She said, "She has followed me eating chaff and husks without ever being full; once she is placed in a great mansion, waited on by maids and servants, and fed on rich foods, if her heart is content then my wish is fulfilled. Do you think I am selling vegetables that I should ask a price?" The lady of the house was greatly pleased and treated her generously. The woman then bade the girl bow to Wang and his wife, and instructed her: "These are your father-in-law and mother-in-law; you should serve them with care. I am very busy and am going now; in three or five days I will come again." Wang ordered servants and horses to see her off, but the woman said, "The lane is not far; no need for such trouble." Then she went out the gate. Xiaocui showed no sorrow or attachment; she at once turned to the dowry chests and rummaged for embroidery patterns. The lady also loved and delighted in her. Several days passed, and the woman did not come. They asked the girl for her dwelling place, but she was artlessly foolish and could not tell the way. So they prepared a separate courtyard and had the young couple perform the wedding rites. When all the relatives heard that they had picked up a poor family's daughter as a new bride, they all laughed and mocked her; but when they saw the girl, they were all astonished, and the gossip ceased. The girl was also very clever, able to discern her father- and mother-in-law's moods. Lord Wang and his wife cherished her more than ordinary, yet they were always apprehensive, fearing she might dislike their son's stupidity; but the girl was always cheerful and showed no distaste. She was, however, given to jesting: she made a ball by stitching cloth and amused herself with kicking it. In small leather boots, she could kick it dozens of paces and then make the young master run to fetch it; the young master and the maids would often be streaming with sweat in turn. One day, Wang happened to pass by, and the ball came flying—straight into his face. The girl and the maids all slipped away, while the young master still bounded after it. Wang, enraged, threw a stone at him, and only then did he lie down and cry. Wang told the lady; the lady went to reprove the girl, but she bowed her head and smiled, idly scratching the bed with her fingers. After they withdrew, she was as boisterous as before, painting the young master's face with powder and rouge to look like a ghost. When the lady saw this, she was furious and called the girl to curse her. The girl leaned on the table, playing with her belt, unafraid and silent. The lady could do nothing with her, so she beat her son with a staff. Yuanfeng wailed loudly, and only then did the girl change color, kneeling and begging for pardon. The lady's anger instantly subsided, and she set down the staff and left. The girl laughingly pulled the young master into the chamber, brushed the dust from his clothes, wiped his tears, rubbed his welts, and fed him dates and chestnuts. The young master then stopped weeping and cheered up. The girl shut the courtyard gates and dressed the young master up as the Hegemon-King, or as a man of the desert; she herself put on bright attire, cinched her slender waist, and gracefully danced as a tent-attendant; or she would stick pheasant tails in her hair, pluck the pipa, producing tinkling, interwoven sounds, and fill the room with laughter—this became their daily routine. Lord Wang, because his son was foolish, could not bear to reprove the daughter-in-law too harshly; even if he heard something of it, he let it pass. In the same lane there was a Censor Wang, a few dozen households away, but they had always been at odds; at that time, the triennial evaluation of officials was approaching, and he envied Lord Wang's holding the seal of the Henan Circuit, wishing to injure him. Lord Wang knew of his scheme and was anxious, seeing no way out. One evening, after going to bed early, the girl put on cap and belt, dressed up as the Minister of Personnel, clipped white silk threads to make a thick moustache, and dressed two maidservants in blue as attendants. She secretly took a horse from the stable and rode out, jestingly saying, "I am going to call on Mr. Wang." Galloping to the Censor's gate, she then whipped her attendants and declared loudly, "I am calling on Censor Wang—would I call on Censor Wang of the Remonstrance Bureau?" She turned her horse and returned. When she reached her own gate, the gatekeeper mistook her for the real one and rushed in to inform Lord Wang. Lord Wang hurriedly rose to receive him, only to realize it was his daughter-in-law's prank. Extremely angry, he said to his wife, "Just as others are seeking a flaw in me, she instead parades the disgrace of the inner chambers to announce it at his door—my ruin is not far off!" The lady, enraged, rushed to the girl's room and scolded her. The girl only giggled foolishly and did not utter a word in reply. To beat her—they could not bear it; to expel her—she had no home. The husband and wife fretted and resented each other, unable to sleep all night. At that time, the Minister of Personnel, a certain Mr. so-and-so, was extremely powerful; his ceremonial retinue and dress were no different from the girl's disguise, and Censor Wang also mistook it for the real one. He repeatedly spied on Lord Wang's gate, and when late at night the guest had still not come out, he suspected that the Minister and Lord Wang were plotting together. The next day at the morning court, he saw Lord Wang and asked, "Did the Minister come to your house last night?" Lord Wang, suspecting he was being mocked, answered with a shamefaced "yes" and did not reply much. The Censor grew even more suspicious, and thus his scheme was dropped; from then on he became more amicable with Lord Wang. Lord Wang, having probed the situation, was secretly pleased, and privately instructed his wife to urge the girl to mend her ways; the girl laughed in assent. After a year, the chief minister was dismissed. Just then, a private letter addressed to Lord Wang was mistakenly delivered to the Censor. The Censor was overjoyed and first sent someone friendly to Lord Wang to borrow ten thousand taels; Lord Wang refused. The Censor then went to Lord Wang's residence himself. Lord Wang looked for his cap and robe but could not find them; the Censor waited a long time, grew angry at Lord Wang's discourtesy, and was about to leave in a huff. Suddenly he saw the young master wearing an imperial robe and royal tasseled crown, pushed out of the gate by a girl from inside. He was greatly startled; then he laughed, patted him, and took off the robe and crown before leaving. Lord Wang hurried out, but the guest had already gone far. When he heard the reason, his face turned ashen with terror, and he wept loudly, saying, "This is a flood of misfortune! In no time she will destroy our entire clan!" He took a staff and went with his wife to confront her. The girl already knew, shut the door, and let them rage and curse. Lord Wang, furious, chopped at the door with an axe. The girl, from inside, smilingly said to him, "Father, do not be angry! With your daughter-in-law here, whether sword, saw, axe, or halberd, she herself will bear it, and will certainly not let harm come to your parents. If you act thus, do you wish to kill your daughter-in-law to silence her?" Lord Wang then stopped. The Censor returned and indeed submitted a memorial accusing Wang of treason, with the robe and crown as evidence. The Emperor, startled, examined them—the tasseled crown was made of sorghum-grain hearts, and the robe was a tattered yellow wrap of worn cloth. The Emperor was angered by his slander. He also summoned Yuanfeng, and seeing his simpleton appearance that was amusing to behold, laughed and said, "Can this one be the Son of Heaven?" He then referred the case to the judicial authorities. The Censor further sued that Wang's household had demonic persons. The judicial authorities strictly interrogated the servants, who all said there was nothing unusual, only a silly woman and a foolish boy who amused themselves daily with laughter; the neighbors also had no different account. The case was thus settled, and the Censor was sentenced to military exile in Yunnan. From then on, Wang regarded the girl as extraordinary. Also, because her mother had not come for a long time, he suspected she was not human. He had his wife probe her, but the girl only smiled and said nothing. When pressed further, she covered her mouth and said, "I am the Jade Emperor's daughter—does Mother not know?" Not long after, Wang was promoted to a high official in the capital. He was over fifty and constantly worried about having no grandson. The girl had lived there for three years, night after night sleeping apart from the young master, as though she had never shared intimacy. The lady moved a bed away and instructed the young master to sleep with his wife. After a few days, the young master told his mother, "You took that bed away—the shrew won't give it back! Xiaocui every night puts her feet and legs on my belly, so I can hardly breathe; and she is always pinching me in the thigh." The maids and old nurses all tittered. The lady scolded him and shooed him away. One day, the girl was bathing in the chamber. The young master saw her and wished to join her. The girl laughing stopped him and told him to wait awhile. When she came out, she then poured more hot water into the vat, removed his robe and trousers, and with the maidservant helped him in. The young master felt steamingly suffocated and cried out loudly that he wanted to get out. The girl would not listen and covered him with a quilt. After a short while, there was no sound. She opened it and looked—he had already expired. The girl calmly smiled without alarm, dragged him onto the bed, wiped his body dry and clean, and added another coverlet over him. When the lady heard of this, she wept and rushed in, cursing: "Mad slave, why did you kill my son!" The girl smiled broadly and said, "Such a foolish child were better not had." The lady grew even more enraged and thrust her head at the girl; the maidservants vied to pull her back and dissuade her. While they were all in an uproar, one maidservant announced: "The young master is groaning!" She ceased weeping and felt him—his breath was gentle and easy, yet great sweat poured forth, soaking through the mattress and padding. After the space of a meal, the sweat stopped. He suddenly opened his eyes and looked about, gazing at all the family members as if he recognized none of them, saying, "I now recall the past—it was all like a dream. Why is that?" The lady, finding his speech not foolish, was greatly astonished. She took him to see his father, and they tested him repeatedly—he was indeed not foolish. Overjoyed, they felt as if they had obtained some rare treasure. That evening, he returned to his former sleeping place, and they arranged new pillows and coverlets to observe him. The young master entered the room and sent all the maidservants away. When they peeped in early the next morning, the bed was empty of her. From this time on, his fits of folly and madness never recurred, and their marriage was quiet and harmonious, like form and shadow. A year and more later, the master was impeached and dismissed from office by the faction of the Censor, with some minor entanglements of blame. Formerly, the Governor of Guangxi had presented him with a jade vase worth several thousand taels of gold, which he was about to bring out to bribe those in power. The girl, fondling and playing with it, let it slip and broke it. Ashamed, she went to throw herself down in apology. The master and his wife, already displeased over their dismissal, upon hearing of it, flew into a rage and berated her with mutual reproaches. The girl angrily came forth and said to the young master: "In your household, what I have preserved is more than just one vase—why must you show me not the least shred of face? Let me tell you plainly: I am not human. Because my mother encountered the Thunder Tribulation and your father greatly shielded her; and because there was a five-year fated bond between us two, I came to repay that former kindness and fulfill that old destiny. The reproaches and abuse I have endured are more than can be counted by pulling out all my hairs. The only reason I did not leave at once was that the five years of affection had not yet been fulfilled—how can I now stop short of it!" With that she went out in high dudgeon; when they pursued her, she had already vanished. The master was stunned and felt utterly at a loss, but regret came too late. The young master entered the chamber and beheld the remnants of her powder and the hooks she had left behind. He wept in grief as if wishing to die; he could neither eat nor sleep, and day by day grew haggard and gaunt. The master was greatly worried and urgently tried to arrange a new marriage to console him, but the young master took no pleasure in it. He only sought a fine painter to make a small portrait of Cui, and day and night he offered libations and prayed beneath it for nearly two years. By chance, he was returning home from another village one day when the bright moon was already shining. Outside the village stood the family’s garden pavilion. As he rode past the wall on horseback, he heard voices of laughter and talk. He reined in his horse, had the groom hold the bridle, and climbed onto the saddle to look—there were two young ladies playing inside. The clouds and moonlight were dim and hazy, so he could not distinguish them clearly. He only heard one dressed in green say: "Maid, you ought to be driven out the gate!" The one in red said: "You are in my family's garden pavilion—whom do you mean to drive out instead?" The one in green said: "Maid, are you not ashamed? You could not be a proper wife and were sent away, yet you still brazenly claim property here?" The one in red said: "That is still better than an old maid like you who has no patron!" Hearing the voice, which closely resembled Xiao Cui's, he called out to her urgently. The one in green left, saying: "For now I will not contend with you—your man has come." Soon after, the one in red came—it was indeed Xiao Cui. He was overjoyed. The girl told him to climb the wall, and she reached down to help him over, saying: "Two years without seeing you—you are a mere handful of bones!" The young master held her hand and wept, pouring out all his longing. The girl said: "I knew of it too, but I had no face to see your family again. Now, playing with my elder sister here, I encounter you once more—this shows that former causes cannot be escaped." He asked her to return home with him; she would not. He asked her to stay in the garden; she consented. The young master sent a servant to hasten and inform the lady. The lady rose in surprise, mounted a sedan-chair and went there, opened the lock, and entered the pavilion. The girl at once came down and greeted her with a bow. The lady grasped her arm, weeping, and earnestly apologized for her former faults, almost unable to contain herself, saying: "If you do not hold the old thorns against me, then come back home with me, to comfort my declining years." The girl sternly refused and would not agree. The lady feared the rustic pavilion was too desolate and planned to assign many servants to attend her. The girl said: "I do not wish to see any of those people—only the two former maidservants who attended me daily; I cannot help but feel attached to them. Besides them, only one old servant to answer the gate—I need nothing else." The lady did entirely as she said. She entrusted the young master to convalesce in the garden, supplying him with daily food and necessities. The girl often urged the young master to marry another, but he would not obey. After another year or more, the girl's brows, eyes, voice, and manner gradually changed from before. He brought out the portrait to compare and they were utterly unlike—as if two different people. He was greatly startled. The girl said: "How does your wife of today compare to the beauty of former days?" The young master said: "Today's beauty is beautiful, but compared to the former, she seems not as good." The girl said: "Do you think I have aged?" The young master said: "You are only past twenty—how could you age so quickly?" The girl laughed and burned the portrait; he tried to save it but it was already ashes. One day, she said to the young master: "Formerly when I was at home, your father said I would never spin a cocoon to the death. Now your parents are aged and you are alone—I truly cannot bear children, and I fear I will hinder your family's succession. Please take a wife at home, so that morning and evening she may attend your father and mother, while you come and go between the two households—there will be no inconvenience either." The young master agreed and sent betrothal gifts to the household of Grand Historian Zhong. As the auspicious day drew near, the girl made clothes and shoes for the new bride and sent them all to the mother's quarters. When the new bride entered the gate, her speech, appearance, and bearing differed not by a hair from Xiao Cui's—he was greatly astonished. He went to the garden pavilion, but the girl was nowhere to be found. He asked the maidservant, who brought out a red kerchief and said: "The lady has temporarily returned to her family and left this for you, young master." He spread open the kerchief—within was tied a single jade ring. He knew in his heart that she would not return, and so brought the maidservant back with him. Though he never forgot Xiao Cui for a moment, fortunately when facing the new bride he felt as if he were seeing his old love. Only then did he realize that the marriage with the Zhong family had been foreseen by the girl, and she had therefore first transformed her appearance to comfort his thoughts in days to come. The Scribe of the Strange remarks: "Here was a fox who, for a single unthinking kindness, still remembered to requite it—yet the one who received a second creation of fortune, instead cried out in dismay over a broken vase—how contemptible! The moon, though waning, was made round again; she departed at her ease. Thus one knows that the feelings of immortals also run deeper than those of the common world!" Jin Heshang Monk Jin Monk Jin was a man from Zhucheng. His father was a rogue who sold him for a few hundred coppers to the monastery on Mount Wulian. As a youth he was stubborn and dull, unable to study the pure Buddhist texts; he herded pigs to market, like a hired servant. Later, when his original master died, there was a little leftover gold, which he tucked into his bosom, left the monastery, and went off as a peddler. In "watering the sheep" and "mounting the ridge," his schemes were the most cunning. In a few years he suddenly grew rich, and bought fields and houses in Shuipo Village. His disciples were many, and the number of mouths to feed daily reached a thousand. Around the village stretched a thousand mu of rich fields. Dozens of residences were built in the village, all occupied by monks yet without monks—if there were any, they were poor and landless, who had brought their wives and children and rented houses and tilled the fields. Within each gate, surrounding buildings in four directions, all these people lived in rows. The monk dwelt in their midst: in front was a hall, whose beams and rafters and bracket-arches were painted in gold and azure, dazzling the eye; the tables and screens in the hall shone with a crystal brightness one could see one's reflection in; further behind was the inner chamber, with crimson curtains and embroidered canopies, and the fragrance of orchids and musk overflowing and assailing the nose; the bed was of mother-of-pearl inlaid carved sandalwood, upon which were brocaded mats and cushions, piled up a foot or more thick; famous paintings of beauties and landscapes on the walls were hung and pasted on, leaving hardly a bare spot. With one loud call, dozens of men outside would thunder their response like rolling thunder. Those in fine caps and leather boots would gather like crows and stand like cranes; when given orders they would all speak in whispers, inclining their ears to listen. If a guest arrived suddenly, a dozen feasts could be prepared in a snap, with rich meats and steaming viands strewn about in profusion like a falling mist. He dared not openly keep singing girls; but a dozen or so clever lads, all shrewd and good at fawning, with black gauze wrapped around their heads, sang amorous songs, and the sight and sound were not at all bad. When Jin went out, dozens of horsemen preceded and followed him, their bows and arrows clattering against one another. His servants all addressed him as "Master"; even the local people and commoners would call him "Grandfather," or "Uncle," or "Elder Uncle," never "Master," never "Venerable One," never by his meditation name. When his disciples went out, they were somewhat less grand than Jin, yet with wind-blown manes and cloud-like reins, they were roughly on a par with the sons of noblemen. Jin also cultivated extensive connections—even from a thousand li away, correspondence could reach him—and thus he held the leverage over local officials' strengths and weaknesses; if by chance anyone offended him, they would instantly tremble with fear. But the man himself was vulgar and unlettered, with not a refined bone from head to toe. In all his life he never chanted a single sutra or recited a single mantra; his feet never trod in a monastery, nor did he ever keep cymbals or drums in his house; such things his disciples had never seen, nor even heard of. All those who rented his houses—women decked out in finery like those in the capital, with rouge and powder and gold ornaments—all received their supplies from the monk, and he did not stint them; for this reason there were hundreds in the village who neither tilled the land nor farmed. Once when a wicked tenant cut off the monk's head and buried it under the bed, he did not press the investigation very far, but merely drove the man away—such was his ingrained habit. Jin also bought a boy of another surname and made him his private son. He engaged a Confucian tutor to teach him the examination curriculum. The boy was clever and could write essays, so he entered the county school; soon he purchased the rank of Imperial College student; before long, he went to the Northern Examinations and passed the provincial level. From then on Jin's name resounded as "Grand Old Man." Those who had formerly called him "Master" now called him "Grand Old Man," and those who had knelt at his mat now hung their hands and performed the rites due to sons and grandsons. Before long, the Grand Old Man monk passed away. The filial son, in mourning garments, lay on the straw and earthen block, facing north and calling himself "the orphan"; all the disciples laid aside their staffs and filled the couches and beds; but behind the funeral curtain only one person sobbed softly—the filial son's wife alone. The ladies of the officials and gentry all came in fine attire, drew back the curtain and offered condolences; carriages and canopies and horses filled the roads. On the day of the interment, tents and pavilions rose like clouds, and banners and streamers obscured the sun. The funerary effigies were adorned with gold and silk; there were dozens of canopies and ceremonial trappings; a thousand horses and a hundred beauties in sleeves, all as if alive. Fang Bi and Fang Xiang were giant figures made of paper frames, with black gauze and golden armor—hollow inside with a wooden crosspiece, into which living men were placed to carry them along. With mechanisms to make them move, their beards and eyebrows flew about; their eyes glittered and flashed as if about to shout; the spectators were amazed and startled, and little children who saw them from afar would cry and run away. The spirit dwelling was magnificent as a palace, with towers, pavilions, rooms, and corridors stretching for dozens of mu, with a thousand gates and ten thousand doors, so that those who entered were lost and could not find their way out. The sacrificial offerings in the forms of various things were many beyond naming. Those attending the funeral jostled shoulder to shoulder; from the high officials above, all stooped as they entered, rose and bowed as at a court audience; down to the tribute students, expectant officials, and clerks, they placed their hands on the ground and kowtowed, not daring to trouble the young master, but troubling his uncles and elder disciples instead. At that time, the whole district came to gaze, men and women panting and sweating, filling the roads; those carrying wives and nursing children, calling for brothers and seeking sisters, raised a boiling din. Intermingled with the clamor of drums and music, and the clatter of acrobatic performances, human voices were all but inaudible. The spectators from the shoulders down were hidden from view, with only ten thousand heads bobbing and crowding together. One pregnant woman, seized with labor pains, was about to give birth; her female companions spread their skirts as a tent and gathered around her; only the cry of the infant was heard, with no time to ask whether boy or girl; they tore off a strip of cloth and wrapped it in their bosoms, some supporting her, some pulling her, hobbling away. What a spectacle! After the burial, Jin's bequeathed property was divided into two parts: one for the son, one for the disciples. The filial son got half, but the residences to the south, north, east, and west of his house were all occupied by the black-robed fraternity; yet they kept the ties of brothers, sharing each other's pains and itches. The Historian of the Strange comments: "This is a school of its own—neither of the two main traditions, nor transmitted by the Sixth Patriarch—one may say he alone opened a new Dharma-gate. Yet I have heard: 'The Five Aggregates are all empty, the Six Dusts are not defiled'—that is called a 'monk'; 'preaching the Dharma with the mouth, meditating on the mat'—that is called a 'monkish model'; 'shoes fragrant in Chu lands, hats heavy under Wu skies'—that is called a 'monkish tramp'; 'drums and gongs blaring, pipes and flutes blaring'—that is called a 'monkish chant'; 'doglike scurrying for favors, flylike bustling in lewd gaming'—that is called a 'monkish screen.' As for this Jin, was he a 'monk'? A 'model'? A 'tramp'? A 'chant'? Or a hellish 'screen'?" The Dragon Plays with the Spider Magistrate Xu was the magistrate of Qidong. In his yamen there was a tower used to store delicacies and bait, but things were often stolen and eaten, leaving a mess on the floor. The servants were repeatedly scolded, so they hid and watched. They saw a spider as big as a peck measure. Frightened, they ran and reported it to the magistrate. He found it strange, and daily sent maids to throw it food. The spider grew tamer, coming out to cling to people when hungry, and leaving when full. After more than a year, the magistrate happened to be reviewing documents when the spider suddenly came and crouched on his desk. Suspecting it was hungry, he was about to call for bait when he saw two snakes flanking the spider, as thin as chopsticks. The spider curled its legs and shrunk its belly, as if unable to bear its fear. In an instant, the snakes suddenly grew, thicker than eggs. Greatly alarmed, he tried to flee. A tremendous thunderbolt struck, and the whole household was shaken to death. After a while, the magistrate revived; his wife and maids and servants struck dead numbered seven. He fell ill for over a month, and soon died. The magistrate had been upright, incorruptible, and loving to the people; on the day his coffin departed, the people collected money to see him off, and weeping filled the countryside. The Historian of the Strange comments: "The Dragon playing with the Spider—I always took it for a village rumor, but did it truly happen? I have heard that the thunderbolt strikes only the wicked. Why then should a good and virtuous official suffer such cruel calamity? Is not Heaven's injustice all too frequent?" The Merchant's Wife A certain merchant of Tianjin, about to trade in a distant place, borrowed several hundred in capital from a rich man. He was spied upon by a thief, who, when evening came, hid in the room to await his return. But the merchant, deeming that day auspicious, set out with the money. The thief lay hidden a long while, hearing only the merchant's wife turning on the bed, seemingly unable to sleep. Then a small door in the wall opened, and the whole room lit up. A young woman came out from the door, fair and youthful, holding a long sash in her hand. She approached the bed and offered it to the wife, who refused it with her hand. The woman insisted on giving it; the wife then took the sash, rose, hung it from the beam, and hanged herself. The woman then left, and the wall door closed again. The thief, greatly startled, drew the bolt and fled. At dawn, the household found the wife dead and brought the matter to the officials. The officials arrested a neighbor and tortured a confession from him; he falsely confessed, the case was closed, and he was soon to be executed. The thief, indignant at his injustice, surrendered himself at court and told what he had seen that night. Upon interrogation, the story was verified, and the neighbor was released. Inquiring among the villagers, they said that the former owner of the house had once had a young wife who hanged herself; her age and appearance exactly matched what the thief had described, so they knew it was her ghost. It is said that those who die violently must seek a substitute—is it so? Yama's Banquet In Jinghai there was a scholar named Shao, whose family was poor. When his mother's birthday came, he prepared sacrificial meats and wine and set them out in the courtyard; after he had bowed and risen, the dishes on the table were all empty. Greatly alarmed, he told his mother of the matter. His mother suspected that he could not afford to provide a birthday feast and had therefore invented the story, so Shao remained silent, unable to clear himself. Before long, the provincial examiner arrived for the examinations; Shao, suffering from lack of travel funds, borrowed a small sum and set out. On the road he encountered a man who was waiting by the roadside in a low posture and invited him with great warmth. Shao followed him. He saw halls, pavilions, towers, and terraces stretching continuously along the streets. Once inside, a king sat in the hall upon a throne. Shao prostrated himself in obeisance. The king, with a gracious expression, bade him be seated and at once gave him a feast. Then he said: "When I passed by your honored abode before, my servants were hungry and thirsty on the road, and they took the liberty of partaking of your lavish feast." Shao was startled and did not understand. The king said: "I am the King of Wu Guan. Do you not remember the day when your honored mother set out her birthday ornaments?" When the feast was over, he brought out a packet of white silver and said: "For the disturbance of your pig's trotters, I offer this in return." Shao received it and came out, but the palace and all its figures had at once vanished; only a few great trees stood desolately by the roadside. He looked at what he had been given: it was genuine gold, and weighed five taels. After the examinations ended, only half of it had been spent, and he still brought the rest home to offer to his mother. Yì Guǐ The physician Yang of Shanxi was skilled in the art of acupuncture and moxibustion, and could also command ghosts. Whenever he went out, the man who held the bridle and plied the whip for his mule was always a ghostly being. Once at night, returning from elsewhere, he was traveling with a friend. On the road they saw two men approaching, of exceptional height and stature. His friend was greatly terrified. Yang at once asked: "Who are you?" They answered: "Long-Legs Wang and Big-Head Li, come to respectfully welcome our master." Yang said: "Go before me as my outrunners." The two turned and walked ahead; when they lagged, they would stand and wait, just like servants. Xì Liǔ The girl Xì Liǔ was the daughter of a scholar from Zhongdu. Some, because her waist was slender and lovely, teasingly called her "Xì Liǔ." She was clever from childhood, understood written characters, and delighted in reading physiognomic texts. In her daily life she was reserved and taciturn, never speaking of others' merits or faults; but whenever a match was proposed, she always insisted on seeing the man with her own eyes. She looked over many men, yet none proved acceptable, until she was nineteen. Her parents angrily said to her: "If there is never to be a good match in all the world, will you grow old a spinster?" The girl said: "I truly wished to make human effort prevail over Heaven; but since I have long sought and not succeeded, it is also my fate. From now on, I beg only to follow my parents' command." At that time there was a certain Gao Sheng, from a distinguished family and a famous scholar, who, having heard of Xì Liǔ's reputation, sent betrothal gifts. After the wedding, the husband and wife were very happy together. Gao Sheng's late wife had left a son, whose childhood name was Changfu, then five years old; the girl raised him with thorough care. Whenever she went to visit her own family, Changfu would weep and cry and follow after her, and neither scolding nor sending him away could stop him. After more than a year, she gave birth to a son and named him Changhu. Her husband asked the meaning of the names, and she replied: "Nothing special—I only hope he will always stay close by my side." The girl was careless in needlework and often paid it little attention; but regarding the fields to the southeast and the amounts of tax, she would consult the ledgers and inquire, fearing only that she was not thorough enough. After some time, she said to her husband: "Please set aside all household affairs and leave them to me; I wonder whether I can manage the household?" Her husband followed her words, and within half a year nothing in the household was neglected, and her husband also esteemed her abilities. One day her husband went to a neighboring village for a drinking party, when a tax collector came knocking at the door and shouting abuse; they sent a servant to soothe him, but he would not leave. They then hurried a page to call her husband back. After the officer had gone, her husband laughed and said: "Xì Liǔ, now do you see that a clever woman is no match for a stupid man?" On hearing this, she bowed her head and wept. Her husband, startled, took her arm and tried to comfort her, but she remained unhappy. Her husband could not bear to burden her with all the household affairs and wished to take them up again himself, but she would not consent. Rising early and retiring late, she managed matters with ever greater diligence. Every year she would save in advance the next year's tax payments, so that throughout the year no tax collector was ever seen at their door; she also used the same method to plan for food and clothing, and in this way the household finances grew ever more comfortable. Her husband was greatly pleased, and once jestingly said: "Xì Liǔ, how slender you are: slender brows, slender waist, slender feet, and best of all, your mind is even more slender." She replied: "Gao Lang, how lofty you are: lofty in character, lofty in ambition, lofty in literary skill—may your years be especially lofty as well." In the village there was a man selling fine timber for coffins; the girl paid no heed to the high price and bought it. When the price could not be met in full, she borrowed from relatives and neighbors by various means. Her husband, considering it an unnecessary item, firmly tried to stop her, but she would not listen. She kept it for more than a year, and when a wealthy family suffered a death, they came to her gate and offered double the price to redeem it. Her husband, seeing the profit, consulted her about the matter, but she refused. When asked why, she did not answer; when asked again, her eyes grew bright with tears. He thought it strange, but could not bear to oppose her strongly, and so dropped the matter. Another year passed, and when her husband reached the age of twenty-five, she forbade him to travel far; if he returned even slightly late, servants were sent in succession along the road to summon him. Thus all his friends teased and mocked him. One day her husband went to drink with a friend, felt unwell, and returned; on the way he fell from his horse and died. At that time the summer heat was oppressive, but fortunately all the burial garments had long been prepared. Only then did the villagers all acknowledge Xì Liǔ's foresight. When Changfu reached ten, he began to study composition. After his father died, he became spoiled and refused to read, often running away to roam with shepherd boys. Scolding did not reform him, and he was next punished with the rod, but his stubbornness remained as before. His mother, at her wit's end, called him and admonished him: "Since you refuse to study, how can I force you? But a poor family has no spare hands; change your clothes and work alongside the servants. If not, do not regret the whip!" Thereupon she dressed him in tattered rags and set him to herd pigs; when he returned, he took up his own earthenware bowl and ate gruel with the servants. After several days of this, finding it unbearable, he wept and knelt in the courtyard, begging to be allowed to resume his studies. His mother turned her face to the wall and paid him no heed. Having no choice, he took his switch and went out weeping. As the end of late autumn approached, there were no clothes on the rack, no shoes on his feet; cold rain soaked him, and he shrank his head like a beggar. The villagers who saw him pitied him, and those who took second wives all cited Xì Liǔ as a warning, with much gossip and reproach. The girl gradually heard some of this but remained indifferent. Changfu could not endure the hardship, so he abandoned the pigs and ran away; his mother let him go and made no effort to pursue him. After several months, having nowhere to beg for food— She returned haggard; not daring to enter immediately, she begged a neighborly old woman to inform her mother. The woman said: "If you can endure a hundred strokes, you may come to see me; otherwise, leave early and do not return." Fu heard this, rushed in, wept bitterly, and declared he was willing to receive the blows. The mother asked: "Do you now know to repent?" He said: "I repent." She said: "Since you know repentance, there is no need for beating. You may keep to your duty and herd pigs; if you offend again, there will be no pardon!" Fu cried loudly: "I am willing to receive a hundred strokes; please allow me to resume my studies." The woman would not listen, but the neighbor old woman urged her, and at last she accepted him. She washed his hair, gave him clothes, and ordered him to study with the same teacher as his younger brother Hu. He applied himself diligently and concentrated his thoughts, greatly changed from before, and after three years he entered the prefectural school. The Censor-in-Chief Yang, seeing his essays, thought highly of him and monthly gave him the regular stipend to help with his lamp-oil and fire. Hu was the duller one; after several years of study he could not even remember names. The mother ordered him to put aside his books and take up farming. Hu, fond of idleness, shrank from hard work. The mother angrily said: "The four classes of people each have their own proper occupation. Since you can neither study nor farm, would you rather die of starvation in a ditch?" She immediately caned him. Thereupon he led the servants in tilling the fields; if he once rose late in the morning, reproaches and curses followed. As for clothes and food, the mother always gave the better ones to the elder brother. Hu dared not speak, but in his heart he could not feel at ease. When the farm work was done, the mother gave him capital and had him learn peddling. Hu fell into debauchery and gambling; as soon as money came into his hands he squandered it, and he falsely blamed bandits and bad luck to deceive his mother. The mother discovered it and caned him nearly to death. Fu knelt for a long time and pleaded piteously, offering to take the punishment himself; only then did her anger subside. Thereafter, whenever Hu went out, the mother would spy on him. Hu's conduct somewhat restrained, but it was not from his heart. One day, he asked his mother for permission to go with some merchants to Luoyang; in truth he used the distant journey to indulge his desires, yet inwardly he was fearful, only afraid that his request might not be granted. The mother, upon hearing it, had no suspicion at all; she immediately produced thirty taels of loose silver to prepare his luggage; finally she also gave him a gold ingot, saying: "This is an heirloom from your grandfather's official savings; it must not be spent, only to weigh down your luggage for emergencies. Moreover, since you are new to travel, I dare not expect heavy profits; as long as you do not lose on this thirty taels, that will be enough." Before he left, she again admonished him. Hu promised and went out, pleased with himself. When he reached Luoyang, he declined company with the other merchants and lodged at the house of the famous courtesan Li Ji. After more than ten nights, his loose silver was gradually spent. He thought he still had the large ingot in his pouch, and at first did not worry about destitution; but when he took it out and had it cut, it turned out to be counterfeit gold. He was greatly alarmed and lost color. Old woman Li, seeing his state, spoke coldly to the guest. Hu felt uneasy, but with empty purse and nowhere to turn, he still hoped that Li Ji would remember their former affection and not immediately reject him. Soon two men holding ropes entered and suddenly bound his neck. Terrified and at a loss, he tearfully asked the reason, and learned that Li Ji had stolen the false gold and gone to report him to the magistrate. When brought before the official, he could not defend himself; he was tortured with manacles and nearly died. He was thrown into prison, and having no money, was greatly abused by the jailers, begging food from the other prisoners to eke out his remaining breath. At first, when Hu set out, the mother said to Fu: "Remember, after twenty days I will send you to Luoyang. I am busy with affairs and fear I may forget." Fu asked what she meant, but she looked gloomy and seemed about to weep; he dared not ask further and withdrew. After the twenty days had passed, he asked her again. She sighed and said: "Your younger brother's dissolute behavior today is like your neglect of study in former days. If I had not risked the bad reputation of cruelty, how could you have attained today's standing? Everyone says I am harsh, but tears have soaked my pillows and mats, yet people do not know!" And she wept. Fu stood respectfully listening and dared not press for details. When she had wept, she said: "Your brother's wanton heart is not yet dead, so I gave him false gold to humble him. Now I calculate that he is already in prison. The Censor-in-Chief treats you generously; go and beg him, and you can save him from death and make him ashamed and repentant." Fu set off immediately; by the time he reached Luoyang, his brother had been arrested for three days. He went to the prison to see him; Hu was languid, his face like a ghost, and when he saw his brother he wept uncontrollably. Fu also wept. At that time Fu was favored by the Censor-in-Chief, so his name was known far and wide. The county magistrate, knowing that Fu was Hu's elder brother, promptly released him. When Hu returned home, he still feared his mother's anger, and advanced on his knees. The mother looked at him and said: "Have you now fulfilled your wish?" Hu wept and dared not utter a sound; Fu also knelt beside him; only then did the mother order them to rise. From then on he bitterly repented, and managed all household affairs diligently; even if he occasionally slacked, the mother did not scold him. For several months she did not speak to him about commerce; he wished to ask permission himself but dared not, so he told his intention to his brother. The mother heard of it and was pleased; she raised funds by pawning and lending, and gave them to him; within half a year, his profits doubled. That year, Fu passed the autumn provincial examination, and three years later he attained the highest degree; his younger brother accumulated wealth of many tens of thousands through trade. A villager who had visited Luoyang caught sight of the Lady of the house; she was forty years old but still looked like about thirty, and her clothing and adornment were simple, like that of an ordinary family. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "When the black-hearted talisman appears, the tale of reeds changes; ancient and modern are all from the same den, truly lamentable! Some who avoid censure often overcorrect, to the point of sitting idly by while their children run wild and never questioning them—how are they any better than those who mistreat? But here is one who daily beat her own children, yet people did not consider her cruel; if such treatment were applied to children of another womb, then criticism would follow. Now Xiliu was certainly not particularly harsh toward her former husband's son; but if her own child had turned out well, how could she have made her true heart known to the world? Yet she did not avoid suspicion, did not decline slander, and in the end caused both sons, one rich and one honored, to stand out in the world. Whether within the women's chambers or beyond, she must be counted as a remarkable person among even men!"